


I'd Run Right Into Hell (And Back)....

by telemachus



Series: Waves of Glory [14]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Forgiveness, Glorfindel on a motorbike, Loneliness, M/M, Money, Regret, Rich Legolas, Thranduil's A+ Parenting, Trust, fidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 03:28:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 32,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5401298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas, in his role as not-quite-lord-of-the-manor, can't resist trying to improve the lives of his Silvans.... whether they like it or not.</p><p>Gimli is still trying to adapt to living with Legolas, to the huge changes in his life.</p><p>Glorfindel and Erestor are back in London, trying to make a relationship work.</p><p>But living together with someone you love isn't easy - and nor is living apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wynja2007](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynja2007/gifts).



> Another, not very seasonal, gift, for Wynja2007.
> 
> More of some elves I believe you are fond of.....
> 
>  
> 
> Title from the Meatloaf song
> 
> And I would do anything for love,  
> I'd run right into hell and back.....  
> I would do anything for love -  
> but I won't do that.

It isn’t an emergency. It isn’t.

I just can’t find it.

I can’t find the file.

Anywhere.

It must be here.

I know it must. 

It can’t have just disappeared. They don’t do that.

Surely.

But – I don’t know where it is.

Think, Caradhil.

Where would it be?

I don’t know, I just don’t know. 

I used to, used to know where everything was, could put my hand on any of it.

Too much paperwork these days.

And I – I have got used to having help.

Don’t think about that, Caradhil.

And I can hear his voice, half-laughing, as he tells me – you don’t need the paper copy, it’s all on the computer. Easy to call up.

Copy it, rename it, put in this year’s figures, projections, and there you are.

Easy.

Only.

I don’t know how to find it on the computer either.

I glare at the stupid thing, and it blinks, intransigently.

It doesn’t care.

Bite my lip.

Very well. I will come back to this another day. 

I could even, I suppose, ask someone, anyone, for help. 

I don’t know who.

I don’t know how.

I don’t like asking for help.

I haven’t had to. He has spoiled me all these years.

And now – now he isn’t here.

And I am tired.

So damn _tired_.

I don’t know what time it is, I only know – it’s dark outside, moon is full-risen, maybe – maybe I should go home.

Only it doesn’t feel like home anymore.

He isn’t there.

For a moment, I am tempted to stay here, here in my office, where the emptiness is – almost – bearable, but I know, if I do, I will drink the whisky that is sitting in my desk drawer, calling to me, and I – I will end by picking up the phone.

No.

I made myself a promise. I won’t do that. However much I want to, I will not.

It isn’t an emergency.

So I get up, I turn off the computer, nicely, not by punching it, however much satisfaction that might bring, and I walk home.

I don’t drive.

What need?

It is only a mile or so. 

There is no hurry.

No emergency.

Home – such as it is – is cold and dark, and will remain cold and dark.

I do not bother to light the fire – what need? I am an elf, I do not feel the cold.

I do not bother to light the lamps – what need? There is moonlight and starlight filtering through the windows.

I am not hungry.

I am not tired either.

But I go to bed.

Cold and lonely, aching for him.

“Go to London,” I said. “It will do you good. You will enjoy it. Hir-nin says you should go, so you go.”

I keep seeing his face.

The hurt that I could send him.

The fear, the bewilderment, at the airport, his things in a little duffel bag, his ticket bought, his larger bag of clothes and – and I know not what – checked in.

“You have to go,” I said again. “You will enjoy it.”

He didn’t argue.

He never argues with me.

He just – looked.

His eyes, so dark, so wide, so – oh my sweet love – so hurting. He just looked at me again.

“It won’t be long,” he said, pleading with me, “when hir-neth-nin sees I am not as – clever – as he thinks, he will send me back. I will come back home soon.

Or you will come and see me.

You will come, won’t you?”

And I – I shrugged.

“I don’t know,” I said. And then, “it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what we want, what we think. 

It is your duty to go, so you go. And you do your best. None of this ‘I am not clever’. If hir-neth-nin says you are clever, then you had better be.

It doesn’t matter how long you are away.”

I shrugged, oh my sweet darling, his face in such pain, so unsure, and I shrugged, and said, “none of it matters. It’s only time.”

He reached out, as though to touch – to touch – in such a place – before others, and I – I stepped back.

We had said our goodbyes, I thought. 

We had kissed our last kiss, touched for the last time here, here in our home.

_Our_ home it was that morning.

_My_ home when I returned.

I stepped back from him, refused his touch.

I let my fear of – of indiscretion, of sharing what is ours with passers-by – rob us of another moment of closeness, of that which now I think I would do almost anything to have once more.

I do not know now how I could do such a thing to him.

How I could hurt him so.

He walked away, then, without looking back.

I stood, pointlessly, outside the airport, until I saw his plane leave.

Then I drove back here.

Months ago that was.

He tried to telephone, to email, even to write.

I know he did.

He would have.

I know that.

That’s why I – I started screening the calls, the emails, the letters. If I recognise who they are from – I don’t look, don’t listen.

I can’t.

I – I am not so strong as I would wish. If I look, if I listen, if I let myself, I – I think I might shatter. 

And I need to hold myself together, to be strong, to keep this my life, my work, on track, where it should be. To care for the land, my home.

I would have heard if he were – hurt, ill.

I know I would have.

He is busy.

Learning things I do not know, speaking to people I will never meet, enjoying himself, becoming – becoming someone more than he could ever be here.

It is the right thing to do.

I know this.

And I – I do not write, or telephone, or email, because that would be – unfair of me.

I am tempted. Of course I am.

I want to ask where the things are that I cannot find.

How to do the things I have forgotten how to do.

What he meant in this or that cryptic note to himself which now I must try and decipher.

I want to tell him how the land is, how the trees look, how the deer run, the lynx increase and flourish.

I want to know he is well, and happy, and eating properly, and – and full of song.

I want to hear his voice.

I want – I want to know he has not – not been pulled too much into – into city ways.

I want to know that – that he will come home one day, that he thinks of me, of here, of our life.

I want to tell him I love him.

I miss him.

I want to beg him to come home.

And so – I do not write, or telephone, or email.

He is young, he should be free.

This is a great opportunity for him.

I lie alone and watch the stars, and wonder if he ever looks at them from where he is now.

They say you cannot see the stars, in a city.

I cannot imagine that.

I cannot even imagine what it is like there, what he is doing.

It does not matter.

None of it matters. Not really.

It is not an emergency.

It is only time.

Time passes.

Eventually.


	2. Chapter 2

_Going straight to club, c u there. Xxxxxxxxxx_

Oh.

Fuck.

He sent that – when – about an hour ago.

Shit, Las.

Why are you so bloody hopeless about this sort of thing?

You said – you said – you’d definitely, repeat definitely, need to come home first, get changed. That no way were you going dancing in what you wore to work today. What did you wear this morning?

Don’t know.

Fuck.

Am I getting – complacent? Too used to this?

But – Las, you said – you said you would come home first.

Right. Whatever. At least I know where to go, and I’m as ready as I’ll get.

For a minute, I sigh at the thought of walking to the tube station, waiting, ignoring the nutters you get this time of night, of queuing outside the club alone.

No.

Old habits of thought.

Doesn’t have to be like that anymore.

Pick up entryphone, speak to concierge. Taxi please.

By the time I get down there, it’s waiting, knows where it’s going.

All on the account.

Shit, I like this.

Ten minutes, fifteen. And then – walk past the queue.

Speak to bouncer.

Of course, sir, come this way, and – I’m in.

Your party is over there, sir, table in the VIP area.

Fuck.

Fuck me rigid.

I like this.

But I’m not used to it yet.

 

 

 

 

Still, I get over there, and yes, there’s Ki, and Tau, and some random faces I half-recognise from Las’ office, maybe I’ll know who they are if I catch names, and – and no Las.

Tau sees me look,

“He’s dancing,” she says, and grins, “over there, somewhere.”

Oh.

Part of me wants to say – is he pissed off that I’m late? But – no.

Not in front of Ki.

Ki leans forward, and I realise he’s – not absolutely plastered, but – heading that way. He waves his hand and I lean closer, and then, confidentially, 

“Ori – bloody Ori – you know what he’s been and gone and done?”

No.

Of course I don’t, you twat. How would I? 

But it’s a rhetorical question.

“He’s – he’s finally got round to saying something.”

What?

I must look blank, because Ki sighs, and tries again,

“To Dori. About Dwalin. And Dori is – well. Not a happy bunny.”

No.

No idea.

I look at him, waiting. Then,

“Dwalin? Your Uncle’s – best friend in all the world, that Dwalin?”

Ki nods, meaningfully,

“Finally got fed up of waiting. Finally. So.”

No.

Still not following this conversation.

He sighs again, gestures with his drink, spilling it, 

“So – your parents will have to get over themselves. Stop making out it’s such a big fucking deal.”

I look at Tau, as Ki slumps back, to see if she can interpret, and she laughs again – she’s very relaxed tonight, she must find drunk-Ki sweet, or something,

“What my fiancé,” and doesn’t she love that word, and doesn’t he grin dopeily up at her, and aren’t they just so fucking sweet, and – oh stop it, Gim, you’re just being unreasonable because Las hasn’t even noticed you’ve arrived, “what my fiancé is trying, in his own way, to say, is that Ori, who everyone thought was quiet and shy, has been shagging Dwalin for – well, quite some time now – and has finally had enough of being the bit on the side, and Dwalin has admitted that the thing with Uncle Thorin isn’t happening, on account of Uncle Thorin not being entirely in the same room as everyone else these days, and actually Ori is probably more to his taste anyway. Only Dori is a bit – shocked – because of the age thing, I think, and the Uncle Thorin issue, even though we were all supposed to not know that was ever anything more than friends,” she takes a breath, “So apparently your parents have lost the sympathy factor. Because Ori has behaved far worse. So your parents might calm down a bit.”

Yeah, right.

Like that’s going to happen.

But I appreciate the thought.

And the gossip.

Shame Ki is too out of it to really enjoy it all.

Tomorrow, perhaps.

Then Tau looks past me, and waves, and there’s Las.

My sweet Las.

And – oh fuck – what is he wearing?

He didn’t go to work in that? 

Surely.

But his arms are round me, and his mouth on me, and he presses up against me, and – and oh fuck, I’m getting hard, and so is he, and – and I want, shit, yes, I want. It’s been – over twenty-four hours, I realise, no wonder.

Then he pulls back a bit,

“Hello you,” he says, and I grin.

“Hello yourself,” I say.

“Been here long?” he asks, “thought you’d text when you arrived, or something.”

I look at his jeans, and wonder just where in those he can possibly have fitted a phone.

“Forgot,” I say, and he nods, like it doesn’t matter.

Shit.

Perhaps it doesn’t.

He gestures towards the others, and starts making introductions, but I don’t follow them all. Katie, yes I know that name, Diana, Mel, Guy, Eddie, Aragorn, oh yes him – and then the music changes, and he is off, must dance to this one, I love this, Gim, dance with me?

But no, no fucking way.

Not here.

Not this sort of music, in front of so many fucking elves.

And Ki.

No fucking way, Las.

And – and he laughs, and shrugs, and off he goes, a floating, happy, shining creature.

Fuck.

Most of the others follow in his wake.

Tau, thank fuck, which means he won’t even think to look at anyone else, dance with anyone else.

Ki shrugs again,

“Bloody elves,” he says, and we clink bottles, “what can you do? Can’t live without them, can’t stop them dancing.”

No.

Then I look at our companions. 

“Aglarcu,” I say, proud I can remember and pronounce the name, “don’t you want to dance? Thought all bloody elves danced at the least excuse?”

He shrugs, and bites his lip.

Fuck, but he is so young.

Still not sure Las should have persuaded him down to London. He says he gave them the option, that it wasn’t forced, that Aglarcu loves the work, but – well, fuck knows with elves.

“I – I couldn’t,” he says, “not here, not without – I couldn’t.”

Oh shit.

Poor sod.

Then Ki starts some rambling story, and I must concentrate on him, and more drinks come, and the night goes on, as nights with elves do.


	3. Chapter 3

It is not an emergency.

There is no reason to – to allow myself to read his letters, listen to the messages he leaves.

No reason to contact him.

No reason to – to do the unthinkable, to desert my life, my home, the land – to go to him.

He does not need me, I tell myself.

He probably never did, not truly. 

Oh he thought he did, he thought – say it, Caradhil, in your own mind say it – he thought he loved me.

But he – he was so young. He knew no-one else.

And I – I took advantage of him. Over and over again, all down the years, not just of his sweetness, his naivety, his – his affection – but of his intelligence, his skills.

So now, now it is time to let him go, let him have the life he deserves.

I have avoided his parents since he went.

I have nothing to say to them.

What can I say?

I daresay they miss him also. But surely, as I do, they realise, they understand why he should do this?

What this opportunity will give him?

Surely – they never left here any more than I managed to – surely they can see that I must – _I must_ – allow him to go, to be all that he can?

All that I will never, could never be.

Tonight, tonight he seems very far away, and the days when he was here are long gone. I cannot believe he will return.

I do not know if I would have come back, even then, even when I was young, had fortune taken me away.

I daresay I would, the love and care for the land were bred into me, the legacy of my father.

But my sweet love, my Aglarcu – I always knew, somewhere in me, that he only learnt to love the land for my sake.

And so – if I can cut him free – I will.

I have.

But at night – and in the day also, but the hours of work help drive it away – at night the longing, the loneliness runs strong in me, and I could open the door, walk out upon my hills, and cry to the sky above, howling and wailing for the pain and loss within me.

I do not.

But the pain in me is fierce and raging.


	4. Chapter 4

We are back again, drinking, dancing, same group pretty much, Ki not so drunk this time, and someone has coaxed Aglarcu to try whisky in his cola.

Bloody awful combination, seems to me.

Not just the taste, but – an elf on caffeine and alcohol.

Bad idea.

Mind, so far, he just looks – a bit less pale. Not even enough to be flushed, just – less pale.

Suits him.

Aragorn looks more cheerful, less grim, as Las would no doubt say, as well. His – whatshername – Arwen is down on a visit.

Accompanied, much to Las’ disgust, by her brothers. The idiot twins, he calls them. And, I think, they are largely here to see that Arwen goes back to her hotel room every night.

Fuck.

This Elrond must be an absolute piece of work.

Anyway.

The idiot twins are ignoring everyone else, and drinking – I’m not sure they are going to end up able to even notice when Arwen goes off with lover-boy, but there. Not my problem.

No.

My problem is my gorgeous, beautiful, Las.

Who is living it up on the dancefloor, once again.

Only.

We had – words would not be a strong enough description – last time. Because I was late, because he didn’t come home first, because he went out and bought a whole new fucking outfit – and who knew just how much money you could spend on jeans and boots – rather than take the time to come home and pick me up, because I didn’t dance, because I drank too much, because I wouldn’t snog him in public, because – because everything.

Because he is he, and I am I.

Fuck.

Well.

We did that too. Later. 

After the shouting, and the not-quite-fighting, and the flinging out, and slamming doors, and all the rest of it, we both came trailing back, and looked at each other, and – and fell into bed, well, not actually bed, like it was the first time.

Only more.

So now, now I don’t want a repeat of the fight, but I do want the sex.

So I’m keeping a close eye on my elf.

I keep drinking, keep laughing with Ki, chatting with – whoever is around – but, I keep an eye on my elf.

Two eyes, as often as I can spare them.

And shit.

Fuck.

What the bloody hell?

I turn to ask Tau, but she shrugs.

“No idea who that is,” she says, which means it isn’t an ex, I realise. 

I watch.

Watch as some – bloody fucking bastard golden-haired elf – comes up to my Las, my Las who is virtually squealing with excitement, and – and fuck me – picks him up, swings him round and round, and – and Las has his hands braced on the bugger’s shoulders as he laughs down at him, his legs round his waist, and – and I don’t know what the fuck to think.

They carry on like that for a while.

Longer than I am happy with, but – I don’t want to go making a scene.

Puts him down eventually.

Las is chattering away, and the other elf is talking, nearly as animatedly.

And all the time, bloody elves, they are dancing, and – though I haven’t really tried to dance with him much – I know they match better than he and I ever will.

Better than he and Tau, for all the years of practice.

Then I realise who this must be, even as Las points to us, and starts dragging him over.

Fuck.

Fuck.

“Gim, Tau, Ki, Aglarcu, Katie, everyone,” and oh Las, you remembered to include Aglarcu in that, that was kind, “this is Glorfindel. My father’s friend – my friend,” he corrects himself, and I – I don’t like that, “Glorfindel, this is Tau, and Ki, and,” he goes through everyone, one at a time, ending with, “and this – this is my Gimli.”

Which helps a bit.

Bloody Glorfindel has a word for everyone. Turns on the sodding charm, like a tap, and – and fuck, even I can see why they are all so impressed.

He takes Aglarcu’s hand, when he comes to him, and raises it to his lips.

“Silvan – and beautiful – and vowed,” he adds, and sighs, “such a shame, penneth-nin.”

Aglarcu doesn’t know where to look, nor whether to be delighted at the compliment – or terrified.

Poor little sod.

“Aren’t you off the market yourself?” I ask, “Or was my Las mistaken?”

Shit.

That was – out of order. And the tone of voice made it worse.

Las is glaring at me.

But Glorfindel – laughs.

“Indeed, master dwarf,” he says, all the old arrogance of elf to dwarf in his voice, “but old habits of speech die hard. I have had some very charming friends over the years – I have known many Silvans,” he does not quite leer, or wink, but it is a close thing, “And now, yes, I have all I need.”

I nod.

“Then where is he tonight?” I ask, and the idiot twins, who have started paying attention I notice, now there is something to see, chime in,

“Yes, what have you done with Erestor – he is not one to dance,”

“We have never seen him dance. Or drink.”

And Glorfindel grins, a wonderful, happy, disarming grin.

Almost disarming.

“You are not looking, boys,” he says, and gestures.

We all look.

Fuck me rigid with a chainsaw.

Just – fuck.

Las – Las said this Erestor was a quiet, scholar type, a civil-servant, a reserved and quiet elf. The perfect foil to Glorfindel’s noise and show, he said.

Well.

Bloody elves.

For a moment, I think I might be looking at the wrong elf.


	5. Chapter 5

I turn, as we all turn, as Glorfindel waves a hand.

I don’t know what I expect to see.

Erestor perhaps propping up the bar, returning from a cigarette break, looking out across the room with an expression of resignation, or contempt – no, not contempt, not for his lover. Patience, I suppose. Lack of understanding.

He did not seem an elf to enjoy music or movement, to forget himself.

And so it is a long moment before I realise, before I follow the direction of the stares, and understand Gim’s indrawn breath.

That elf, there.

Up on the podium.

Dark loose hair, no, not quite loose, held into – into very specific braiding, which even I can read – by some kind of gold chain.

Eyes half-closed, but made large, dark and mysterious by – by eyeliner. 

Serious make-up there. Skilled and perfect.

But – I only met him once, really, well, one weekend.

I barely noticed him to begin with, what with one thing and another.

My own troubles, Glorfindel’s presence, Ada.

Most of all – his own reserve, self-effacement.

Now – he still wears black. No longer the nondescript dusty black of practicality, but – perfection.

Darkest, deepest black.

A shimmering silk shirt, its short sleeves somehow emphasising his muscles, his tan, his slimness.

Leather trousers which fit like a skin, and promise untold skills.

Boots.

I want some like that. I don’t have those. They are – gorgeous. I like boots.

He is dancing, moving sinuous, snake-like and hypnotising.

Alone, and unneeding of any.

But I think, I think if he stretched out a hand, almost any in this club would come to him, kneel and worship.

For a moment, I want to laugh.

That – that vision is Glorfindel’s beloved.

And Gim thinks – I can see it in his eyes – thinks Glorfindel may be interested in me?

A callow youth, no experience, no history – no warstories to my name?

And none of that dark magnetism.

Not that I want it, nor him.

I do not.

Not at all.

I have Gim.

He is – more than enough.

He is.

Even if he will not dance, will not pick me up, as I know he could, and spin me round, and make me giddy with excitement and movement.

I am not going to think like that now.

No.

I love Gim.

And besides, Glorfindel loves Erestor, wants Erestor.


	6. Chapter 6

All fucking evening, the two of them are all over each other.

Every time I look round from where Ki and I are drinking, there they are.

Glorfindel – bloody war-hero, flying ace, spy, whatever bloody else – elf – approved by Ada – Glorfindel – and Legolas.

He doesn’t seem like my Legolas, my Las tonight.

When Tau comes over, Ki whsipers something to her. I can’t hear what, but I’m not stupid. She looks over at the two blonds, golden and pale, the way they are dancing, the animated hands, the endless almost-silent elf-speech flowing between them, and she shrugs.

Turns to me,

“He’s just having fun, Gim,” she says, and she really looks puzzled, “no different to how he is with me some nights – you don’t mind that?”

“Doesn’t fucking fancy you, does he?” I say, and I look down at my beer as she bites a lip.

“But he didn’t,” she says, “you know he didn’t. He said stop, he remembered in time. Even in all the excitement – he didn’t.”

Oh shit.

So there was a moment when it came close.

I thought there must have been.

I shrug, and turn away, nursing my hurt.

Tau and Ki giggle, and chatter, and she flits off to dance some more, and then back, and then they are leaving, the party breaking up, Katie grinning and patting Legolas’ shoulder as he remonstrates,

“I know, I know, the idiot twins,” she says, and then, “Las, it may not be your fantasy – but – identical twins? Sounds good to me. Just tonight, god, they’d drive you mad for longer. Stop worrying. I know what I’m doing,” and then she winks, “besides, think how much happier he’ll be next week,” indicating Aragorn, who indeed looks as though he has been crowned king of the world, as he realises Arwen is unsupervised and has – plans.

Oh good.

So everyone is getting shagged tonight.

Me included, one way or another.

Even as I am sourly wondering what happened before, and what happens now, and whether I have the courage to ask, Erestor comes stalking over. He must have been watching more closely than it seemed.

Glorfindel almost drops Legolas in his haste.

“Kitten,” he says, “Kitten, I thought you weren’t joining us? You know Legolas, and this is his Gimli, and,” and he goes through the names he can remember, ending, “and this is Aglarcu. Isn’t he perfectly gorgeous?”

Erestor looks at him as though he is – the sun and the moon, and all the stars that elves so love.

“No, Goldilocks,” he says, “no-one is perfectly gorgeous but you. Aglarcu is very pretty.”

And he winks at Aglarcu.

Poor lad.

“Legolas, do take your dwarf home, and – cheer him up – I daresay a blowjob would be a good way to begin – and dwarf, panic not. Whatever idea Thranduil may have entertained, Glorfindel is not an eligible gay bachelor. Run along and stop being so foolish the pair of you.”

Aglarcu just looks at him in awe.

Bloody weird Silvans – I don’t suppose he has ever heard anyone speak to one of his lords like that.

We barely speak on the way home, and when he moves in bed, moves down me, to take me in his mouth – I hear again Erestor’s words, and I push him away.

We don’t argue.

He doesn’t even bother to argue, just lies on his back, arm flung over his face. I turn away, and the late night, the drink – I am asleep in moments.

But not so deeply that I don’t wake as his hand moves rhythmically, the bed shaking a little. He gasps as he comes, and I suppose dully that I should be glad he doesn’t say a name, that I can pretend all is well for just a little longer.

That maybe this isn’t how it seems.

Maybe I haven’t made a fool of myself over an elf who never meant any of his pretty words.

 

 

 

 

Keep pretending.

Keep silent.

Didn’t know I could be like this – fuck but I have changed.

You’ve changed me, Las.

It isn’t every night, but all too often, whether we are out, or planning a night in – suddenly – it’s all Glorfindel this, and Glorfindel that.

Oh, Erestor’s there too, not part of the crowd, but there. In the nightclub, in the restaurant, in the flat, and that’s part of what makes it so awful.

I like him.

At least – he’s intimidating, frighteningly clever, sarcastic – but – I can’t help but like him.

Fuck.

If things were different, I’d probably like Glorfindel.

Everyone else bloody does.

With his bloody war stories, and his jokes, and his way of holding everyone’s attention.

And his fucking good looks.

His charm.

His – golden fucking perfection.

Shit.

It isn’t every night.

We still have nights in, nights just Las and me, nights of warmth, of tv, of talk and sex.

But not enough.

And it isn’t me that chooses when we go out, I don’t seem to have any control, any say in what we do.

Once or twice I try, I try to suggest we stay in – but Las doesn’t listen. 

It’s another night in another club – or maybe the same one – I don’t care. All I can see is Las, dancing with Glorfindel, drinking with Glorfindel, laughing with Glorfindel, talking and listening to Glorfindel.

Flirting with Glorfindel.

Fuck.

Evening wears on.

I drink.

I don’t dance.

No bloody point is there?

Las is all over Glorfindel. Wouldn’t fucking notice me.

At the end of the night, they are wrapped round each other.

Oh fuck.

They come over, and Las looks at me, 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m going to have to take Glorfindel home. Erestor’s not here – working late – pulling an all-nighter apparently – and he’s in no state to drive, to get home alone.”

For a minute I want to say we’ll both take him. Pour him into a taxi, ladle him out of it, put him to bed.

Then I realise.

He’s not drunk.

He’s just – playing.

Playing with me, with Las.

And Las loves it.

Fuck.

I shrug, and turn away.

Ready to go home alone.

If it is home. 

Las’ flat. Maybe I should just move out.

Start again.

Fuck.


	7. Chapter 7

Oh that feels good.

So good.

Waking, being held.

Arms round me – strong arms, warm.

Close.

Snuggled together.

The way he fits against me.

Taller than me, so wrapped round me from behind like this – I feel safe and protected.

I love this.

Love him so much.

Eyes not focusing yet, but so good, so good to be home, to be in his bed.

At last.

Been so long, so long waiting, wanting.

No more now.

Be together.

Always.

Move a little, push against him, and his hands tighten on me, he mutters something into my neck,

“Ssh beautiful, not time to get up yet, penneth-nin,”

And I lie here, luxuriating in the feel of him hard against me.

Trying to remember all of last night. 

Sleepy.

Happy.

So very happy.

Drifting off again.

 

 

 

 

Waking again.

Warm still.

In his arms.

Close.

Feels good.

Only – something’s wrong.

Trying to remember.

At the nightclub.

Drinking.

Dancing.

Drinking more.

Seeing Legolas – almost used to calling him that now – seeing him dancing with Glorfindel, seeing how sad his Gimli was getting.

Feeling sad for them.

Both here, both wanting the same thing, both in love. Legolas being silly.

Missing my Caradhil – missing Caradhil so much.

Still.

But he doesn’t want me anymore.

Sent me here, sent me away.

And the pain of it shoots through me again.

I – I always knew he didn’t love me as I love him. I never questioned that, not really.

But he was always so kind, so affectionate – in his way – and – when once we’d made love – I knew I was his as long as he wanted me. And he did want me, for a long while.

I made him happy, I did, I know I did.

He used to smile, and hold me.

There was that time he said he loved me.

I knew it wasn’t real passion, not the love I feel for him, but – he loved me a little.

Only.

He sent me away.

I still don’t know what I did wrong, why he would suddenly do that.

At first, at first I thought it wouldn’t be long, wouldn’t matter. I tried to tell myself he might even miss me enough to – to say it again.

But he doesn’t answer letters or emails, he doesn’t phone me, and if I try to phone him, he doesn’t answer.

I miss him so much.

But I’m starting to understand – he is bored of me.

And then last night.

“I’m sorry,” I heard Legolas say, “I’m going to have to take Glorfindel home. Erestor’s not here – working late – pulling an all-nighter apparently – and he’s in no state to drive, to get home alone.”

And the look on Gimli’s face as he turned away.

But not just that – I like Gimli – a bit, I do, he can’t help being a dwarf, he isn’t so bad really – but Legolas – he’s my lord. 

You don’t have a choice.

Not when your lord is standing there, looking like that, about to do something that will ruin his life.

You have to step in.

So I did.

“No, hir-nin,” I said, forgetting where we were, “no, you don’t know his bike. I can take that. He’s not so bad he can’t ride pillion, for once. I’ll get him home. You go and – and – and take care of –“ and I ran out of words, just gestured.

There was a moment when Legolas looked at me, and I thought he might say something, but he didn’t. He simply nodded, and walked away.

Bike was a bit different to the scramblers we use at home.

No helmet.

Streets, and lights, and so on.

Still – years of practice – similar enough. Quite fun actually.

Got us here safely.

Only.

He didn’t want to come in alone, be alone.

And I – I’m not good at saying no. Especially to someone – someone so – assured.

And now I’m waking up in his bed.

Realising what I’ve done.

Trying to be sure what exactly I’ve done.

As though it makes a difference.

I’ve broken my vows, thrown my last hope away.

Lost everything.

I can’t go home now.

I couldn’t face Caradhil.

Oh Caradhil.

I blink, and my eyes start to clear, waking, not weeping, not yet.

At first I don’t understand what I see.

Black.

Legs in black jeans, black boots, left crossed over right at the ankle, stretched out.

My gaze traces up them.

Oh.

Oh Elbereth.

My day just became even worse.

Erestor.

But he nods as he sees I am waking, and he doesn’t look angry.

At least, not as angry as I would expect.

“Awake now, penneth?” he says, and then, “bathroom’s through there. Help yourself to whatever you want – need. I expect you can get yourself home, when you’re done.”

I bite my lip.

I should get up, he’s making that clear. Get up, and go, and leave him to deal with his lover.

Only.

Suddenly – and I never felt this before – is this what mortals feel all the time – I don’t want to get out of bed – to expose myself – my naked body – to his cold, uninterested gaze.

I flush.

He must know what I am thinking, but he takes no notice, just,

“Time to get up, Aglarcu, go on.”

So I find I must, and I do, and I am flaming as I walk across the room, and I have never been as glad of anything as of the lock on the bathroom door.

 

 

 

 

I stand under the shower for a long time.

Still can’t quite get used to all the luxury these people take for granted.

Hot, hot water.

Washing everything away.

Washing my hair.

Unbraided.

And I realise – I can’t rebraid it.

Ever.

Not like that.

Not the braids I was so proud to wear.

Oh Caradhil. 

Caradhil, what have I done?

I didn’t mean it – I didn’t mean to – want to – I just – it happened.

I miss you so much.

I want to go home to you.

But I can’t.

Never again.

The tears run down with the hot water.

Occurs to me after a while that perhaps I shouldn’t use it all.

So I get out.

Towels.

I realise I have no clothes here – I will have to go out there and find the ones I was wearing last night.

And I leave my thoughts for a moment, and begin to make sense of the words I can hear.


	8. Chapter 8

“Kitten – Kitten – I’m sorry. I was drunk. It was an accident, a mistake – nothing for you to worry over. I missed you – it’s always you – you know that.”

Silence.

“Kitten, listen; he didn’t – Legolas didn’t – think I should drive. He was going to put me in a taxi, bring me back, but his dwarf was huffing, you know what Naugs are like, and then this lad said he could take me on the bike. Seemed easier. That’s all. He just came in, it was late and he was tired. It would have been a long way home for him, and he’d already come out of his way. Just seemed kind to ask him in.”

“Kind?”

“Yes.”

Silence.

For a long moment I look at him, my bright Goldilocks – not so bright this morning – decidedly tarnished, in fact.

He meets my eyes, and there is no lie in him.

“Nothing happened,” he says.

And I believe him.

At least, I believe he does not knowingly lie.

But I saw the despair, the pain on that Silvan’s face as he awoke, as he realised where he was.

I know why this happened, I know it has been building for a while now – I knew he was bored, craving excitement, craving adventure.

I have watched him these last few weeks, months, playing with Thranduilion, and I knew I was living this happiness only on borrowed time. I knew there would be a price to pay, knew something would have to change.

I simply hoped we might have a little longer.

I thought, in my innocence, I thought Thranduilion would keep him happy, occupied, for a while. Be a safety valve, allow him to let off steam with no harm done.

At least, no harm that I considered important.

Perhaps I should have thought more carefully.

Perhaps I should even have spoken.

As it is, what have I done, what have I allowed to happen?

“Nothing happened?” I ask, eyebrow raised, and I shake my head, “you stupid, stupid fool. You have, from the sound of it, upset Legolas’ dwarf, which is not likely to endear you to him – and while Thranduil is not happy about that relationship, he prefers it to having his son stalking the bars and nightclubs every night. Your friend Thranduil, remember?”

He lowers his gaze, guilty, as well he may.

“And,” I continue, “this Silvan. Whatever you did, or did not do – you have quite possibly destroyed him. Fool. He is not one of your unattached little mistakes – he is vowed. He probably thinks he has broken his vows, is cast out, lost.”

I turn away, because I don’t want him to see the pain in my own eyes.

I don’t say the rest.

That you could not wait a few evenings for me without this kind of exhibition.

That you cannot trust that I love you, you need the proof of forgiveness, even if you do not truly want the transgression.

That you are bored by my life, by all that I am and have to offer.

That without excitement, adventure, you do not know how to live.

That there can never be an everyday, a happy ever after, for us.

Only a brief holiday in the sun, a running away.

There is nothing on which to build a life, a home.

And that – that hurts more than any physical infidelity could.

I know I do not need to.


	9. Chapter 9

“ –he has broken his vows, is cast out, lost.”

Somehow hearing Erestor say it – say it so clearly, and – and he almost seems to feel sorry for me – how can he, when I have – with his beloved – but it makes it worse.

By the time I manage to leave the bathroom, they have gone to the kitchen, I think, and I can smell coffee – but I feel sick.

I dress quickly, and open the door into the hall.

I can’t hear them speaking, but I can see a little way into the kitchen, and there are the sounds of breakfast being made, the smell of toast and coffee.

I can see the front door.

It would be best to just – go.

I don’t want to see either of them, I have nothing to say to them.

What is there to say?

I walk towards the door, but although I am quiet as only an elf can be quiet, they are elves also.

“Aglarcu – come and eat something – listen – it is not so bad – “ I suppose Erestor means to be kind, but how can he think I might want to eat, to break bread with them? 

And to say it is not so bad – what I have done – I remember all the times I have heard Caradhil speak of Noldor, of city elves and their strange ways, their lack of honour, and I – I ache inside that I did not understand, did not believe him until now, now when it is too late.

I look at the door, but there are too many locks, I cannot see how to open it.

I am – still – not used to locks and keys.

I had better become used to them, I think, they are a part of my life now, from now until the end, for I can no longer go home.

Slowly I reach out, and start to try to open them, one at a time.

“Aglarcu –“ Erestor speaks again.

Then I am gently moved aside, and the door is opened, and as I scurry through, not wanting to look, to see, to acknowledge him, he touches my shoulder, and I flinch as though burned,

“I am sorry,” Glorfindel says, “I did not think. I forgot.”

But I am gone, heading for the street, for the long walk home.

I go back to my room, my – bedsit – and I sit there, on my bed, all day, curled into myself.


	10. Chapter 10

He takes my breath away sometimes.

Even now, after all the years, all the pain, all the joy, all the words spoken and unspoken.

I watch as the Silvan flees, and I make a note to myself that perhaps I should speak to Legolas, warn him to keep an eye on this one.

Then Glorfindel turns, and I see an expression of confusion on his face, and somehow, somehow, that is the worst.

“You forgot?” I ask, “You do that to him, tear his life apart, and the only thing you can think of to say to him is that – you forgot?”

He shrugs, looks down and back, and then,

“Yes. I forgot. Nothing happened – nothing that any but a very traditional Silvan would consider important – I forgot he is that sort.”

Slowly I nod, looking at him, my anger growing.

“Nothing happened?” I ask.

He looks at me, his eyes as blue as ever, the heat in them for me, only for me, and yet – today I do not trust it, do not feel warmed, only burned.

“No,” he says, and then, “but if you don’t trust me, don’t believe me, how can I prove it? Kitten, there is only you, there has only ever been you.”

I raise an eyebrow, because we both know that is a lie.

If it were not – there would have been no need for condoms those first months of our reunion, no need for him to be tested, elf though he is. Elves do not pick up infections easily, but we can, through repeated exposure.

The way he has lived, the danger, the adrenalin, the company – I would be a fool to believe there was no other during the years we were apart, to trust my life to his words.

And I am no fool.

I might – I do not know – I might choose to follow him, to fade to be with him – but I will not relinquish the choice.

“I mean it,” he says, “all the others – that was when you would not love me,” and then he corrects himself, we have had this argument before, “when I was being a fool, when we were clinging to pride instead of to each other, when – oh you know when. Between 1941 and the day Thranduilion finally brought you – us both to our senses.”

That is not quite how I would describe that day, but it will do.

“And most of them, I did little more than fool around, stroke ears, a bit of affection. I am not quite the philandering bastard you like to think,” he continues, and I laugh.

Bitterly, but it is a laugh.

“I do not like to think it, I assure you, Goldilocks,” I say, and he has the grace to colour slightly.

“The point is,” he starts again, “the point is, Kitten, oh my Kitten, love of my life, all that happened last night is, I went dancing, while you were working. I drank too much. Legolas was going to bring me home, since you were not there, but Aglarcu pointed out he could ride the bike better, and then,” he pauses, and yes, this is the crucial part, isn’t it, “then he came in for a drink, and you weren’t here, you didn’t come back, and I didn’t want to sleep alone.”

So it is my fault?

I wait.

“I might have kissed him,” he adds.

I wait.

“I did kiss him.”

Still waiting.

“May have – not sure – may have touched his hair, his ears.”

Wait.

“I did. Touch his ears. Not stroke, just touch. And I did not unbraid him.”

Patience, Erestor.

“Suppose I must have helped him undress though. And he me. But that doesn’t count. Doesn’t matter. Nothing happened.”

Wait.

“Just curled up and slept. Warm.”

Wait.

“Cosy.”

Still waiting.

“Was missing you.”

Again, I wait.

But it seems that this time, he really is finished.

I nod.

And return to my breakfast.

I need to think.

 

 

 

 

 

“Come on, Kitten.

Say something.”

Marmite on wholemeal toast, no butter, black coffee.

“Kitten – where’s my breakfast?”

Shrug.

“Kitten – is this – oh for – Kitten?”

No.

Not reacting.

“I said, it didn’t mean anything. I was just – missing you.”

Silence.

“Reminds me of Ginger, he does a bit. Aglarcu.”

The lad is nothing like Ginger.

“Well. Silvan. No. Suppose not very similar really. You didn’t know Ginger – you met him the once though. Ginger – he was always chasing a pretty face. Girls. Unsuccessfully.”

I didn’t know that.

I know I loathed him that day.

“Married, after the war. Settled down. Well. Went into her family business for a bit. Nice enough girl I think. They had children. A lot. Forget how many. Lost track of what happened after that. We met up for a bit, from time to time, but the other two were Men – watching them age gets miserable. Suppose they’ll be dead now. I don’t know.”

I suppose they will.

Alec died, not in the war, although his – friend – didn’t survive it. He died later. Pure bad luck, in a car, another friend driving, drunk.

Alec and the other passenger killed.

The driver, forget his name now, walked away.

Saw him at the funeral.

Looked a mess. 

Shot himself after.

Men do have a tendency to die.

“I – Kitten – how long are you going to keep this up?”

As long as I wish.

I have no need to speak.

I do not have the words.

What words are there for all the things I feel?

All the questions I would ask are better unspoken.

“Where are you going, Kitten?”

And now, now I do turn, and answer,

“I am going to work. I have to, it is – never mind – I need to be back at my desk, I only came home for a few hours – to see you. And I have seen you. So now I am going.”

And I leave.


	11. Chapter 11

“Love of Elbereth, Thranduil, I just want a drink. Bit of time talking. That’s all.

Like we used to.

Been a while now.

You never come out in the evenings.

No, well, I suppose you might cramp Legolas’ style a bit.

And you’d have to see that boyfriend of his. 

They’re serious you know. 

You’ll have to get used to it.

What does that eyebrow mean?

Oh.

Yes.

Well.

We may have been dancing together a bit.

Doesn’t mean – anything.

Erestor doesn’t mind, he’d rather be alone. 

Gimli? The dwarf? He can’t dance, can’t keep up with your boy. And that girl of his – whatshername – Tauriel – well, she does her best, but she’s Silvan. 

I know you like her.

She’s still a Silvan.

And a girl.

Your son doesn’t really like to dance with girls. You know that.

Better me than someone who isn’t attached, doesn’t know the score.

Your bloody son.

I don’t know why you’re worrying about him.

His fault.

If he’d – if he’d seen me home last night, I wouldn’t be on your doorstep at this time of a Saturday morning.

I’d be comfortably tucked up with my Kitten.

But no, no your bloody son couldn’t return the favour. No, I’m good enough to dance with, to flirt with, to safely have fun with while his dwarf watches from the sidelines, but no, once I need a bit of help getting home – oh I’m handed over to some bloody Silvan.

Not Tauriel.

No, not Tauriel.

Tauriel would have been fine.

Boring, but fine.

Some other bloody Silvan – how many does he have at his beck and call these days? Some pretty lad.

Too damn pretty.

Took me home, came in, put me to bed – little bugger only joined me – still there when Kitten waltzed in this morning.

Not a happy Kitten.

Gone off in a strop now.

Could be bloody years until I get any sense out of him again.

Your son’s fault, all of it.

So pour the wine, Thranduil. A good big glass of the red, same as you’re having, here on your own, like you always are.

Because I’m alone too now.

Just like old times, isn’t it?

Never asked before.

Never knew how.

Never wanted to admit there was someone – but – how – how do you do it?

How do you keep on?

And on.

And on.

Alone.

Because I – I’m afraid.

I’m afraid, Thranduil.

Never been so scared.

All the years, all the scraps, the fights, all the damn silly things I’ve done, all the times I’ve risked my life, all the heroics, the – oh you know the war stories.

But I’ve never been as scared as now.

Now when I finally – finally – had him back, had things the way I wanted – and I’ve screwed up.

And this time, this time I know how long every day and night without him will seem.

Pour the wine, Thranduil.

I need it.”


	12. Chapter 12

I hurt.

I don’t know what to do.

There isn’t anything to be done.

Nothing can take away what I did.

I broke my vows.

I am nothing.

Oh Caradhil.

I love you so much.

But I will never see you again.

How can I?

Morning comes, eventually, and it is Monday, a working day.

I manage to dress, to go into the office where I am supposed to be.

I hate this life, this internship.

I had been hoping – perhaps – I would be able to go home soon. That perhaps I was not – whatever Legolas thought when he insisted I come down here.

That I would not get a college place.

And – and even though I know now that Caradhil – Caradhil could let me go – did not – does not – really want me, love me – I only wanted to go home, to go back to him, to what we had.

Even if it wasn’t really as perfect as I dreamed – I still was happy there, with him. 

I did make him happy.

Happier than without me.

I did.

I know I did.

Sometimes.

Didn’t I?

Now though, I suppose I should try and make a life here, make something out of this mess.

Only I cannot concentrate.

None of it means anything.

I cannot think.

I am usually quiet, so I don’t think anyone notices much different about me.

Kate, trying to be nice, does say that I look different, she has not seen my hair like that before, and I try to smile, to respond as I should.

But how can I – when all I can think is that no, she hasn’t. Because always before I could wear the braids of one who is vowed, and now – now I am nothing.

Now my hair is loosely held in a clip at my neck, and I look – plain, and worthless.

As I am.

But she means it kindly, she is not an elf, she has no thought to hurt, so I try not to let any of it show.


	13. Chapter 13

I work all weekend.

Monday evening I go home, and Glorfindel is not there.

There are signs that he has been home – the place is a mess, there is no bread, no alcohol and no shampoo left.

Empty take away containers.

Clothes strewn around.

Hating myself for it, I check the safe.

All his passports are there.

The bike keys are where they should be.

He will turn up again, sooner or later.

I tidy the worst of it, cook, eat, think.

Go to bed.

Sleep.

He does not mean to wake me when he comes stumbling in.

I hear him collapse on the sofa, and I do not get up.

What would be the point?

What do we have to say to each other?

Nothing.

It is all said, all done.

In the morning, I wash, dress, breakfast, go into work.

He is asleep when I leave.

But I doubt he will be there by evening.

I am no fool.

I know him, and I know what he needs.

This is no life for him.

This world of mine is too small.

His world – his world is huge.


	14. Chapter 14

Since Friday night, things between Gim and I have been – strained.

I don’t know why, I don’t understand what his problem is.

He never minds me dancing with Glorfindel.

After all, it isn’t as though he wants to dance with me.

And Glorfindel is vowed, braided.

But we seem to be barely speaking.

Friday night, we went home together, left Aglarcu to take Glorfindel home, and I am a bit unsure about that.

Keep wondering what Caradhil would say.

But Glorfindel is vowed.

And anyway, I of all people should know – all Aglarcu has to do is say no, and however unconvincing he sounds, Glorfindel will stop.

He is a very honourable elf.

Although I don’t think I will explain that to Gim.

Anyway.

By the time we got home, Gim was “tired”.

So no fuck.

And then Saturday, Gim had “work to finish”.

Saturday night, I don’t even know what time he got in.

I was marathoning Flambards.

Fuck knows why I always go back to that, but I do. 

Horses, romance, lovely, lovely boys.

Ok, I know why I go back to that.

And no hint of Glorfindel anywhere in it, not like some of the other lovestories. 

I wouldn’t want Gim to catch me watching Lawrence of Arabia, for example.

So, Saturday night, he comes in, takes one look, stomps off to bed.

I suppose I should have followed him but – why is it always me has to do the running after, the saying sorry?

Just wasn’t prepared to, not this time.

I didn’t do anything.

Sunday I went for a run before he was awake.

Came back, he was eating bacon sandwiches – all the bacon – all my fucking bacon – all my bread – drinking the tea I bought him – bloody awful stuff – with his bloody milk and sugar that I pay for – in my chair, in front of my television, watching his fucking football.

Football.

Shit.

Shit.

In my flat.

I think I was quite restrained really.

Spent most of the day in my room, working on the laptop.

Well.

Sort of.

Had work open on it, so that was what he’d have seen, had he bothered to come looking.

Sunday night, he didn’t come to bed.

Monday I was up and off to work before he woke.

And now – now I’m sat here, Tuesday lunchtime, not sure what to think.

Gim and I still seem to not be speaking.

Not heard from Tau, no gossip there.

Aglarcu is sat in his corner of the office looking – looking like death warmed up. Pale, and lankhaired, and tired, and – and I don’t know what.

Don’t know why.

Don’t know whether I should go and say something, or whether it’s best left.

And then I get a phonecall from Ada.

“Where are you,” he asks, and to those in my office my face must show all my surprise and confusion, before he goes on, “Legolas, ion-nin, what have you done – or not done – and why were you not here – did you not want to say goodbye?”

I have no idea what he is talking about.

“They have gone,” he says, and then, “oh – never mind. Ion-nin, lunch. Now. I need to talk to you.”

And he puts the phone down.

Fortunately, I know where he means, the restaurant we always go to.

There is nothing urgent here, I can leave the desk – I warn Kate I may be longer than usual, family crisis, I say, no, I don’t know what, but it certainly sounds urgent – and I go.

So now, now I am sitting here, facing Ada, as he waits for what must be, I suspect, his second, possibly third bottle of wine, food ordered – I have no idea what he has chosen for me, and I don’t care – and wait to hear what this crisis is.

His hand shaking slightly he pours for us both, and then looks at me, straight in the eye,

“I do not want to know what has been going on,” he says, and shakes his head in that disappointed way, “it sounds to me as though you have been a fool, but what do I know?”

I bite my lip, waiting.

“Glorfindel – my friend Glorfindel – my friend who has been alone, and sad, and lonely for as long as I have known him – my friend who I thought of when you told me you are gay – my friend who I thought would make you so happy – so very, very happy – and yes, I am selfish enough that I wanted to tie you to someone I trusted, someone who would take care of you, rein in your impulsiveness, keep you safe, bring you to see me more often, not less – my friend who you flirted with, played with, and then – walked away from – well, never mind that, I daresay you had your reasons. My friend Glorfindel has been happier than I knew he could be, recently. 

Since they came back from their holiday – or whatever it was – I doubt there was much holiday about it if I know him – since then, he and that – Erestor – have been inseparable, and vowed, and happy.

You know this.

So why, on Friday night, did you leave him to go home with someone else? Some pretty ellon, from your work I gather. Why did you and your Gimli not take him home? Take care of him? Did he not take care of you at Elrond’s house? Did he not give you good advice, set you on the right path?

Did the fact he is my friend mean nothing to you?”

He looks at me, and I have no answer to any of this. I had not thought.

I simply thought he – Glorfindel I mean – was the only gay elf Ada knew. I did not know he was a close friend, someone Ada cared for so. I knew he was rich, knew Ada considered he would take care of me. I did not know Ada was afraid he might lose me, was afraid I had hurt his friend. I knew he was happy with Erestor. I have heard their story of that holiday – or whatever one might call it, because no, there was little holiday about it.

Yes, Glorfindel gave me good advice, took care of me that weekend, set me on the right path, as Ada calls it – did not allow me to make a huge mistake, to let sex spoil my chance at love, as Ada does not know.

I thought all was well between them. 

I thought only Gim and I have problems.

Suddenly I think of Aglarcu, quiet, and pale, and sad.

I think of him with Caradhil, as we saw them when we went north, shining and happy, perfectly in tune with each other and their surroundings, Caradhil more carefree than I have ever before known him.

And I am afraid.

“What – what has happened?” I ask, and Ada sighs.

“I imagine you can fill in the details better than I,” he says, with that look which I like very little; the one he now habitually wears when there is any reference to my sex-life, or to any sex that isn’t – married and heterosexual. 

I pout.

I don’t like myself for it, but I know I do.

He laughs, and harmony is restored.

“Yes, well, anyway. Glorfindel turned up on my doorstep demanding wine and plenty of it early on Saturday morning,” and I wince, at the thought that Ada is known to his friends as having wine available and open at such a time, oh Ada, but he continues, “he stayed much of the weekend. And then returned Monday, before Erestor might be likely to come home. This morning, he asked me to drive him back to their – to Erestor’s flat. And leave him.”

That doesn’t sound so very bad, I think.

Ada looks at me, and sighs, and drinks,

“I am not as much of a fool as you, it seems. Or perhaps I know Glorfindel better. He is not one to simply crawl back. Besides, I had overheard his phonecalls,” he pauses, and then raises an eyebrow, “I find I regret not – overhearing – more of your phonecalls. We might have understood each other better.”

I open my mouth, because the thought of Ada overhearing – listening – to some of the phonecalls I have made to – well, Hal, among others – is excruciating. Then I see his half-smile, and I am silent.

“Indeed. Perhaps not. You are, I suppose, your mother’s son also,” oh dear Eru, I don’t want to know. I truly do not want to know.

No-one wants to know their parents were in the habit of dirty talk on the phone.

Although I suppose I should be glad Ada was happy once.

“However. Glorfindel had been in contact with – whoever it is who is his current – I am not sure of the word. Handler perhaps? But that sounds so – John le Carre – I am not sure of the precise – anyway. He was leaving. I waited, because I could not but hope I had done the right thing.”

He stops, and drinks again.

“It is not an easy thing, to live with another,” he says, musingly, “to give up all your own habits, your way of life, to merge fortunes. So I am told, by those who have habits, and fortunes before they meet their perfect match,” and then he looks at me, his eyes meet mine, and in the nearest he has ever come to self-revelation, “but it is many, many times more difficult to pick yourself up when once you have lost that perfect love, and start again, and make a life without them.”

I want to speak, to say something, to reach out, in this one moment, this only chance I have ever been offered.

But I am too slow.

He looks past me, and the ice seals over once more.

“I would not watch that happen to my friend. And so I waited, and I would, if necessary, have taken some kind of action to delay him. But he himself seemed to take a long time to fetch his bag, to leave his keys, to bring out his bike. And even then, he stood there, just looking.”

Ada meets my eyes again, and I see that the moment has gone, he is contained as ever.

“I had no idea Erestor could run so fast,” he says, “the taxi must have left him at the end of the road – it is one-way, you remember – and he ran. Glorfindel didn’t turn at first, even when Erestor stood behind him, he just said, ‘nice try, Kitten, but you’re not coming. Not this time. Too many commitments, dependents. You can’t walk away, step out, new life. I know that. We’re too different. We had our chance, years ago, and we didn’t take it. This – this was just a dream.’”

I’m shaking my head, remembering the looks on their faces, the way they are together, this isn’t possible.

Ada shrugs.

“Erestor laughed. ‘I’ve done it’, he said, very quiet, very calm, you know how he is, ‘why do you think I’ve been virtually living in the office these last weeks? All dealt with. They don’t need me.’ That made Glorfindel turn round and look at him, ‘You think I do?’ he said, all cold and haughty, and Erestor laughed again, I have never seen him so relaxed. ‘Yes, Goldilocks, you do,’ he said, and then he just walked up to him, and tilted his head to look at him, ‘I’m ready, passport, wallet, bag packed. I’ll leave the keys, pick up the bag, and then – let’s go. This time, this time, we don’t need to come back for anything more than a visit. I promise you.’

And Glorfindel just looked at him, drinking in the sight, as he did, exactly as he said, bag in the garage, keys back through the door, and then – you’ve seen them kiss. Felt I shouldn’t be watching. But I had to know, had to see the end. They pulled back from one another then, and looked, and then Glorfindel stroked over Erestor’s lips, so gently, and said ‘Let’s go and make some headlines’. And they laughed.”

Ada stops.

He looks down at his glass, and I fill it again, watch as he swirls the wine, 

“They laughed,” he says again, “and they got on that bike, and went. I don’t know where, and I – I should be happy. It’s what he wanted. But I’m not sure I’ll be seeing my friend again,” and he empties the glass, “so, Legolas, whatever you got up to on Friday – you had better have resolved things with your Gimli, because you seem to have cost me my friend.”

Fuck.

Now I feel really guilty, I think, as the waiter puts plates in front of us.

I honestly didn’t think about that – I didn’t know he was Ada’s friend to quite this extent.

“If Glorfindel’s such a good friend,” I ask, picking up my fork, trying to pretend I am delighted with the cesar salad in front of me, “how come you never mentioned him – why had I not met him before?”

Ada stares at his salad, not looking any more enthusiastic than I feel, and drinks again before he answers me,

“I daresay I did mention him. Surely,” he shrugs, and then, and this is quite a day for revelations, “I only started spending time with him after – after you went away to School. You’ve heard him talk – he makes an evening pass. Besides, when were you interested in meeting my friends – when do I meet yours, except Tauriel?”

I drop my eyes, and bite my lip.

Oh Ada.

I’m sorry.

I – I do love you – I always have. Only – you never had time.

At least, I thought you didn’t.

Maybe I was wrong, if you had evenings that seemed long, that needed to be whiled away with Glorfindel’s stories.

I should say something, but I don’t know how.

I shrug, and he pours himself more wine.

After a silence, he pushes his plate away.

“I have said what I needed. So, since you have taken it on yourself to bring a Silvan to London, how is he coping? Does he prove as useful as you hoped?”

“I don’t know,” I say, when Ada asks how Aglarcu is getting on, “I thought he wasn’t too happy to begin – but he was so on top of it all – I was sure he’d get on that course I said about. But now –“ 

I pause and look at Ada, as he pours me another glass, realising that Glorfindel has not told who it was that that took him home on Friday, and I frown in concentration, trying to understand why. He feels my eyes, and puts down the bottle, makes a hand gesture, 

“Now?” he asks, “out with it, ion-nin.”

I shrug, and then, picking up the glass, and swirling it, staring at it, I begin to see. I was right. Above all, Glorfindel is chivalrous, he has all the old virtues. _Glorfindel_ was trying to protect Aglarcu, as I, his lord, did not. _Glorfindel_ saw him as the innocent he doubtless is. The innocent I have thrown into – into a world whose rules he perhaps does not know. That had not occurred to me, he is an adult, he is my age, he is from Scotland, not some long gone time. Then I remember saying to Gim, “It is not Scotland as you know it…..it is Silvan land.” Silvan rules. What have I done? Slowly, thinking at last, I say,

“Now he seems to have lost all his – his spark. He’s working, more so than before, but – there’s no life in him. Yet,” and I only realise this as I say it, “he’s stopped talking about home, going home. He just seems – cold. Quiet.”

Alone and withdrawn.

Like you.

Oh fuck.

Still looking at my glass, I bring myself to ask, as I have never dared ask,

“Ada – if an elf – if an elf is – lonely – truly – achingly lonely – what – what happens?”

No.

That isn’t quite what I mean, but it’s as close as I dare.

He shrugs, beautiful and perfect, and I wonder how any could ever compare us, so naïve and gauche as I still am.

“That would depend on the elf,” he says, “a Silvan – they fade. Simply give up. Noldor – tend to become more inward, perfectionist, obsessive over detail. At least, the craftsman type. Warriors become reckless.”

There is a silence, and we both hear the missing words – what of Sindar, Ada?

Do they become like you?

_Yes._

Do you ache so?

_And more than ache._

I do not want you to be lonely.

_I am lonely._

I love you, Ada.

_You are now my heart’s joy, ion-nin._

I know you lived on only for me.

I would release you, if I could.

_I cannot leave you._

But neither of us will say them.

And it is not until later that my thoughts return to Aglarcu.

 

 

 

 

I am about to go home – to my flat – to try and sort things out with Gim, when I notice Aglarcu again.

Still quiet, drab, pale.

And with his hair different.

I don’t know what that means.

But he ducks his head away, and doesn’t meet my eye as I look, so I don’t say anything.

Instead, I go home.

I wonder about buying Gim – what though – not flowers, he doesn’t like flowers. Jewellery is hardly appropriate. Chocolate? Isn’t that the traditional thing?

Only I know perfectly well I’ll end up eating most of it.

And besides – I pay all the bills, I buy his clothes, his materials, pay his tuition fees, his transport, take him on holiday – I don’t think throwing money at this is likely to help.

He is home already, but it seems he isn’t keen to make amends.

Well, nor was I this morning, I remind myself, when he barely looks up from the television as I walk in the door.

For a moment, I remember bouncing in, arms full of greenery, full of myself, of happiness, of love – I remember the joy of calling out ‘honey, I’m home!’ to the only person I have ever loved, ever wanted like this – and I could weep that it was only a few months ago.

No time at all, really.

And now – now I am walking in slow, and tired, and not knowing how to make things right, and he – he doesn’t even seem to care.

I go through to the bedroom, strip, and shower.

As though standing under hot water for – I do not know how long – will help.

And I remember how not so long ago, he would follow me in, and the shower would lead to more, and time would pass, and – and the evening would seem endless, and love was perfect, love was real, was all the things I ever dreamt.

And the sex was the best I ever had, so hungry for each other.

Now I wash, and wait, though I do not admit to myself that is what I am doing.

When I get out, I just wrap a towel round my waist, use another to rub my hair, and then walk back, sit near him, and start combing it out.

See if he looks.

Because this all started with sex, so perhaps – perhaps sex is the way to speak to him.

I don’t seem to be good at any other way.

But he ignores me.

Or pretends to.

I can’t tell.

I give up.

Go to pour myself juice – no more alcohol today, ‘Las, that would be a bad idea – and see a notepad lying on the worksurface.

Can’t help myself.

I look at the numbers scribbled on it.

At first, I don’t understand what I am seeing, but then I can’t deny it any more.

Shit.

Shit.

Oh fuck.

Oh cunting buggery fuck.

“Gim – Gimli,” I say, trying to control my voice, looking over at the back of his head, “this – is this what I think? These figures – are you – are you thinking about – what exactly are you thinking about?”

He shrugs, not turning, though his finger moves on the remote, and the volume quietens just a fraction before he answers in words – good, I think vaguely, at least we will not have to shout.

“Don’t know what you think,” he grunts, but before I can scream my frustration, “was working out my costs, the amount they pay me, the loan I could take out – what kind of rent I could run to if I move out.”

No.

No, you can’t, you said, you said you felt it too, you said I was your One, you were mine, you said – you said always – you can’t just walk away.

Can you?

Is that something dwarves can do?

And then I hear my own thoughts, and rebuke myself.

Not just dwarves.

Elves can be too proud, elves can – what was the phrase – let stuff get in the way.

I know it, and I don’t want it, and I should speak out.

Only somehow I can’t.

“Is that what you want?” I say instead, and I hear my voice, cold and icy, the voice Ada would use when I asked to spend a week away on a School trip in the holidays, asked to go to Tauriel’s for an exeat weekend, asked to have the money for a birthday treat and go with friends.

The voice that now, now, I understand is the voice of someone trying desperately not to show their pain, to let a beloved make his own choices, not use emotional blackmail.

Oh Ada.

But I can’t bring myself to unbend, to apologise, to explain, to – to beg.

Why should I – I have done nothing wrong.

I have not.

In the teeth of considerable temptation, I have nothing with which to reproach myself.

“Do you want to live somewhere else?” I ask, and there is a long moment of – not silence – football.

He shrugs,

“Your flat,” he says, still staring at the screen, “wasn’t sure you wanted me here. After all, from what I saw, _he_ won’t be welcome at Erestor’s much longer. And I don’t think the three of us would work out so well.”

So.

This is indeed all about Glorfindel.

I sigh.

“He and Erestor have gone,” I say, remembering Ada’s words, “they left this morning – Ada saw them go – he said Erestor has left work – for now – or something. I haven’t seen either of them since Friday,” as though Gim cares when I last saw Erestor.

He nods, slowly,

“So he’s gone – you want me now. Until he comes back,” he turns, looks at me for a moment, and then back to the screen, “then what, Las? I don’t know how elves are – how Erestor is – but I – I can’t bloody live like that. I’ll be looking for somewhere else. Started asking around already – find a flatshare, something, soon as I can.”

Fuck that.

“But I haven’t done anything,” I say, and then, “fuck, no, Gim – you can’t just walk out. Not for no reason. I haven’t done anything. You are being ridiculous, seeing things that aren’t there.”

He shrugs,

“I don’t think so,” he says, still looking away, and then, turns once more, and we stare at each other, and I remember heat, and want, and warmth, and a connection I thought was real, “maybe you haven’t fucked him – but you will. You want to. And I can’t just sit and wait.”

“No,” I say, and I am impressed with the tone of injured innocence I manage, “I won’t. I didn’t before – when we weren’t together – and I wouldn’t now,” and then I laugh, “Besides, do you honestly think he’d walk away from Erestor for me? Or that Erestor would let him?”

Gim shrugs, and then I realise how that sounded.

“Shit. I didn’t mean I would if – oh fucking hell – Gim – I didn’t mean it like that. Please. Just – it was only ever dancing. He – he is nice to dance with.”

He laughs, slightly bitter.

“One way of putting it, I suppose,” he says, and oh sweet Christ, he doesn’t believe me, he isn’t listening.

I try again,

“Gim – Gimli – sweetheart – that’s all it was. I – for fucks sake, if I wanted him, I’d’ve blown him in the club gents, or – or I’d’ve taken him home on Friday, not packed him off with Aglarcu.”

And then I remember Ada’s words, remember the look on Aglarcu’s face, the way he is so – listless.

“Oh fuck,” I say, and then, “oh Gim – please – forget all this for a moment – Aglarcu – he went home with Glorfindel – and now he looks – looks as though he is – I don’t have the words.”

Gim scowls, and I think he isn’t listening, but then,

“You prize fuckwit,” he says, and I may deserve it, but I don’t like it, “oh you really have screwed up all over, Las. Poor bastard didn’t even want to come away from home – you made him – he’s been pining the whole time – carefully not going near anyone he could even slightly think about fancying – and then you sent him home with _Glorfindel_ ,” he glares at me, and, “fucks sake, Las, I _hate_ the cocky bugger, but even I can see he is sex-on-legs, if you like that type. And maybe Aglarcu does – arrogant know-it-all bastards, the older elf, right up his street. So – well done. You’ve screwed up his life, waltzing in, thinking you know best. Just like you did mine – I was happy enough before I met you – but no, you had to come prancing in, changing everything because you wanted a bit of rough. So well done, well done, Las,” he holds up his hand and starts counting on his fingers, “Erestor – yup, you broke down his life, his walls, made him crawl back to bloody _Glorfindel_ , and now you tell me the poor sod’s left his home, his career, everything that made him Erestor. Aglarcu – shit. Fucked him right over, haven’t you? And let’s not even think what that news is going to do to Caradhil – your father’s devoted retainer. Or your ancestral estates, and all the families on them if Caradhil goes. Me in debt, homeless, estranged from my parents. Your father’s lost his friend. Elrond’s precious daughter has jumped into bed with that Aragorn, because between you, you and _Glorfindel_ got the brothers so drunk they didn’t stop it. Which may well mean she’s chosen mortality. So that’s another family screwed. As for what happened after you got those twins so drunk – can only hope Katie is as cool about things as she seemed – but I wouldn’t bet on that one. Ki doesn’t know where he is with Tau half the time, because she’s so used to dancing attendance on you she doesn’t know how to put herself first. Glorfindel – fuck knows whether he’s happy, and I don’t honestly give a shit, but you’ve pretty much led him on for nothing. I daresay there’s some more I can’t think of, don’t know of. But hey, so long as you’ve had fun, you selfish little bastard. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

I am silent.

Fuck.

Oh fuck.

Oh Jesus fucking Christ.

Sweet fucking Elbereth.

Is that – is that how Gim sees me?

How long has he felt like that?

And, icy cold, is he right?

No, I think, desperately, no.

I am not deliberately playing, not the conniving bitch he makes me sound.

I am not.

I thought – thought I was doing right by Aglarcu, giving him opportunities.

Thought that to allow Aragorn and Arwen to make their own decision was right.

Thought that Katie was an adult, able to make her own decision.

Thought that all I did was play along with Glorfindel’s scheme to make Erestor see what he was missing.

And that all the rest of it was Erestor’s choice, his decision.

Tauriel – Tauriel is my friend. I never asked her for anything I shouldn’t – for anything I would not give her. She is my friend. I would drop everything for her, I have before now, although given the circumstances, I suppose she wouldn’t tell Ki about that.

Glorfindel – I didn’t mean to lead him on – he knows that – there was never any dislike between us for it.

All this goes through my head.

But.

Oh Gim, Gimli, Gimli-nin, melethron, amaelamin.

Is that truly how you see this – us?

I thought – thought we were past that.

The match – or whatever he is watching – finishes, and Gim stands, 

“I need to sleep,” he says, and then, looking down at the floor, “I’ll move out, soon as I can. I’m sorry, Las. I just can’t – can’t seem to be what you want. I don’t even know what that is anymore.”

And he walks away.

I hear him getting ready for bed, undressing, cleaning his teeth, pissing, and then the bed creaks slightly as he settles.

For a moment, I think maybe – maybe this can be resolved that way, the nicest way, the way we have resolved every other argument – but when I go through he doesn’t speak; when I drop my towel he closes his eyes; when I climb in beside him, he stays turned away from me, and when I reach out, when I touch him and nuzzle close, he pretends to sleep.

I roll onto my back, and lie, staring at the ceiling.

I do not cry.

I am Thranduilion, and part of that is this – I will not show my pain.

But it is a long night.


	15. Chapter 15

The days pass.

I do not go out with others in the evenings any more.

I don’t know why – there is no point now in hoping to go home, hoping to be with Caradhil again – but I cannot face the noise, and the drink, and – and the possibility of meeting Glorfindel again.

Or Erestor.

Legolas comes over, tells me he has heard from the college – I cannot concentrate enough to take in the name – about the course – that I have a place. 

He seems to think it is good news.

I suppose it is.

Since I can never go home again, I had best learn to like this life.

In the evenings I walk – walk for miles – but it is all streets.

I find parks, the heath, as they call it, but – even there – there is no escape from traffic noise, from the smell of cars, of food cooking, from the noise of people.

It still feels like streets, streets in a strange land, to me.

Legolas tells me that when I have qualified, I will be able to work anywhere – see the world.

I do not want to see the world.

I want to go home.

But I cannot.

I broke my vows.

Over and over I try to think what to do.

I do not know.

I do not know what I can do.

I remind myself that Legolas is my lord, that I must do as he commands, that I had something no other ever had – and I threw it away, I lost it. As a Silvan should for his lord. And so now – now I must carry on.

I notice I am still wearing my ring.

One Saturday I spend hours looking at it, and thinking.

I try again to phone Caradhil.

He does not answer.

I just want to hear his voice again.

But he will not speak, will not listen, will not hear me.

I think of a way.

I take off my ring, and I write a letter.

I know he has not read my other letters, so this time – this time I do not address the envelope myself, I do not send it to his home.

This time, I make it look official.

Let him think it is from one of the lords, then he will open and read it.

Caradhil would never fail in his duty to his lords.

That I know.


	16. Chapter 16

I am aware of Aglarcu, sad and quiet and pale, and I don’t know what the fuck to do.

I try to talk to him, but how can I in the office? 

He won’t come out after work. I don’t know what he does, where he goes. 

He looks exhausted, and I worry.

When I have time, I worry about him – and I know it is my fault.

But a part of me wants to shake him, and tell him to pull himself together. For fucks sake, I think, there is no way Glorfindel would ever, ever have done anything he didn’t want.

So if he regrets it – whatever it is – now – well, get over it.

We all have mistakes in the past, we all have moments we would prefer to forget, one-night-stands that should never have happened. Would never have happened sober.

We all have exes who were – what is the phrase – a long hangover after a short drink?

I don’t sit around moping about Hal, wishing I could change history, wishing he hadn’t – well, never mind what he persuaded me to.

It’s over.

Move on.

And if Aglarcu wants to forget it – well, Glorfindel isn’t around to remind him.

Caradhil doesn’t even know.

Although, I think, he will, the second he sets eyes on Aglarcu, if he doesn’t pull himself together before then.

My pity is limited by my impatience.

I have problems of my own.

Gim has not moved out.

Not yet.

He says he cannot afford to, not in London, and I believe him.

I pretend to believe him.

Of course he could move out, if he really wanted to. That he does not – gives me hope that things can still be mended.

But I don’t know how.

I ask him to come out with me – and he will not.

Fuck.

I suppose I should stay at home, stay in the flat, stay together, show I want to spend time with him.

But when I do – we argue.

Or, worse, we sit unspeaking, while television, laptop, mobile, tablet – anything to build a screen of noise, to keep the aching loss of – of what we had – at bay.

What we had.

It was love.

I knew it then, but now it’s gone, I know it even more.

I miss that giddiness, that happiness.

I miss his hands, his touch, the way he would lie and grin after sex, lie close and warm, talking or not, it didn’t matter.

I try and show I want things to be as they were, but he doesn’t seem to understand.

No.

He doesn’t want to understand.

And I don’t know what to do.


	17. Chapter 17

The months pass.

It is not an emergency, I tell myself over and over, as I long to hear his voice, as I long for his touch, for his scent, for – for him.

For his loving.

Oh Aglarcu.

All those years I took you for granted.

But it is better this way. 

He should be free, be alive, be young, be – be all that he can be.

I have lived alone before, I can do it again.

I am – not happy, not content, but – learning to be resigned.

The cold is – is not so bad.

After all, I do now have memories to warm me.

I never had that before.

It must be better to have had something, than never to have known it.

Surely.

Surely the ache in me that says no, no it was better to not know, not be able to imagine what I wanted, what it was for which I so longed, that is wrong.

I – I am lucky to have had those years.

And that I only lately realised how I loved him – that is my own fault.

And that I have now lost him – given him up – sent him away – that is as the Valar will it.

I had to.

For his sake, and by my lord’s command.

I know it was the right thing to do.

Wasn’t it?

 

 

 

 

The days pass, and I ache for him.

I am – lonely.

Alone.

From time to time, I think of hir-nin, of how he is alone, and for the first time in my life, I wish I was different.

I wish I had a child – that Aglarcu had left me a child to remember him, us, by.

That, of course, is not possible.

But I find, now that he is not here, in an effort not to dwell on my loss of him, my blindness to how much he meant, how much I – love him – for now, now when it is too late the words come easily; in an effort to forget it all, I long to have a child, a child I could teach of the land, a child to hold, and love, and watch grow.

Stupid really.

I tell myself this.

But when my friend returns home – my friend I have not seen in so many years – I find myself telling her of my thoughts, and she – she does not laugh.

“If you and I were different,” she says, staring into the fire, “we would be married by now. Children grown, no doubt.”

Indeed.

I suppose we would.

As it is, I raise my whisky glass, 

“To absent loves,” I say, and we toast her Artaniel, who she will see when once she leaves here, and Aglarcu, whom I begin to doubt I will ever see again.

“No,” she begins again, “listen Caradhil. Artaniel and I have been talking. We do not live so very far away. She and I – we would like a child. More than one perhaps, but one to begin. We are vowed – have been these two decades – you know this. But you and I – we are good friends, are we not?”

For a moment, I do not understand.

She talks on, talks of there being no need now to lie together, that things can be managed more – remotely – than that. Of a child who would live with them, mostly, but come to me for – months at a time.

“It need not have my name,” I say, because I do not care, “at least – perhaps let it decide – when it is older – use whichever suits for different occasions – would that work?”

She looks at me,

“Is that your agreement then? Do you not need to talk to Aglarcu – a child would affect him also?”

I shrug, and lean to poke the fire,

“No,” I say, and keep my face averted, I do not want Meieriel to read what I fear is written there, “no, he is gone. I have no reason to believe he will come back,” and then I wonder if she will think my decision influenced, “he would agree, you know he would. He would always agree to anything I asked. Besides, he is not coming back. But that is not why I say yes – I would have had you asked before. I just,” I swallow, the words for a moment hard to find, “I just wish my parents had known. Yours will be delighted, I suppose.”

Her mouth twists, 

“Not as delighted as if we had married when they told me to make certain of you, when first this house was yours, a century ago. But yes, I daresay it will please them.”

I laugh, and after a moment, she laughs also.

Because, yes, there was a time when we were close, not in love, not even attracted, but close allies against those who would have us different.

A child now would be a very – suitable – undertaking.

And so, like that, plans are made.

I suppose it is hardly the first child to be born from loneliness, and impulse, and whisky by a fire, and laughter.

I doubt it will be the last.

But – it will be mine, and I – I feel fantastic.

I have a future, a reason for my care of the land once more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

But once Meieriel is gone, I am alone again.

Just another day.

Another day among the many.

But I cannot face going home alone once again, my house so cold, so quiet, so empty. I tell myself it is just that it was nice to have company, a friend, it is nothing more. I will grow accustomed to his absence in time. I will. Not today though, today the pain is as bad as it has ever been, and when I have exhausted all the outdoor work, yet not tired myself, not enough, never enough, I go to my office.

There is post to deal with in the office.

Nothing unusual, invoices, enquiries, DEFRA forms, updates from conservation groups.

Dull.

I hate paperwork.

Another reason to miss him.

Hir-neth-nin, why did you have to see his talent – why did you have to interfere?

You never cared about any of your Silvans before – why start with him?

And I swallow down the question even as I ask it, because – if not him, then who?

Someone who has a child?

Someone married?

Someone younger?

Who would I send from their home simply to save myself pain?

Who would gain more than he – who deserved a better life more than he?

But I do so miss him.

I wish – I wish I had done things differently.

Spoken more.

But if I had – he might not have gone. Even I might not have been able to force him to take the offer, seize the chance.

And it is the best thing for him, I remind myself again, even as I stretch out to open the last envelope.

And from it falls a ring.

A ring I know.

And for a moment my heart stops.

He cannot be dead.

With all that I am, I scream my fear – with all that I am, I hold it in, stay silent.

No.

There is a letter, in his hand.

I swallow.

I know what this must say.

He has met another, he has realised what love should be, he – he has decided to be honest, be free of me.

I do not want to read this letter.

But I must.

I pick it up, still holding the ring tightly in my other hand, and I read.

 

 

_Caradhil,_

_Oh my dear, dearest, beloved, adored, Caradhil._

_Did I ever say that? Did I say it enough?_

_I thought I did, thought you knew._

_But you sent me away, and you would not listen, would not let me speak, so maybe not._

_It doesn’t matter now._

_I loved you from the moment I can remember. Always._

_I was never so happy as when we were vowed, when you put the ring on my finger, and let me do the same, when you stood before everyone and said I was yours, that you would take care of me._

_No. I was._

_I do not know if you remember, but you said, not long ago, that you loved me. That you had come home to me._

_I was happy that day._

_And every day I was with you._

_Please, please, believe I love you._

_Only I am not yours any longer. I cannot be. I betrayed you, I broke my vows. I can no longer wear my braids or my ring._

_I did not mean to. I will not say I was drunk, or that he persuaded me, only that I did not understand what I was doing._

_Until it was too late._

_I cannot come home._

_I cannot come back to you._

_I daresay hir-nin Legolas will find a use for me. Or not. I do not seem to mind very much._

_It is very strange here. Very cold. Very noisy._

_Greet the trees and the land for me. Please, Caradhil. I long to come home, to you, to the land, to everything. To you most of all._

_But I cannot._

_I am sorry. More sorry than there are words._

_I love you with all my heart, my fea is yours._

_But I cannot ask you to want me now._

_Aglarcu._

 

 

 

By the time I have finished reading, I am angry.

Angry as I have never been before.

Angry at myself, for letting him go – no, for forcing him.

Angry at those who should know better for not protecting him.

Angry – angry at him, for not trusting me enough to come home.

I breathe hard, I am sorely tempted to take a gun out for practice.

But what would that solve?

Instead, I find the estate credit card, and I turn to the phone.

There are no seats on flights tomorrow. Whatever I do, there are none.

I find the keys for the landrover.

Hir-nin, hir-neth-nin, you owe me something, I think, and I will take it.

This once, I will take it.

 

 

 

 

It is a long drive.

The moon rises full, the stars move in their courses, though by the end of the night I cannot see them for the brightness of street lamps.

Lane becomes A-road, A-road becomes dual carriageway, dual carriageway at last, at last, becomes motorway.

Dawn comes, a new day, and I wonder if my darling has slept this night. If he is truly cold, and surrounded by strange noise, strange everything.

I do not know, I cannot know what his life is like.

I only know it has taken from him all joy, and left him afraid to even try and ask me for help.

I tell myself it is not for much longer, and I wish the old tales were true, that my fea could speak to his.

Motorway after motorway, I watch the junctions pass.

I am patient with traffic, alert to poor driving.

Sitting in rush-hour queues, I remember that to most, this is normal, this is the way of the world, of life, and I ache for my poor Aglarcu, on bus or – or underground train – no, surely not, hir-neth-nin would not ask that – but then I remember, hir-neth-nin loves a dwarf. There is no limit to his strangeness, his modernity.

I swallow down my anger, my guilt, and I drive.

I am an elf.

I do not need rest, I do not need to eat.

I stop only to fill the landrover with diesel.

And to check the directions, check where to go once I am in London.

I hate driving in cities.

But I do it.

How not?

Aglarcu needs me.

This I will do.

 

 

 

 

I find the building.

It looks – to my eyes – hideous.

I am probably not supposed to leave a car here.

Right outside.

I do not care.

I go in, and when some person starts talking to me about security, and who am I here for, I ignore him.

I see Legolas – I will not call him hin-neth-nin – coming down the stairs, and for the first time in my life – I take him by the shoulders.

And shake him.

That feels good.

“Where the fuck is my Aglarcu?” I ask him, and then, “oh, and you might want to do something about the landrover before it gets a ticket.”

After all, technically it is your car.

He looks at me, and then,

“Oh thank Eru,” he says, and turns to the person beside him, “take Caradhil up – don’t ask, it’s a long story – I’ll sort out the car. And security.”

And the person – who is probably perfectly nice and has a name, but I do not care – leads me through barriers, and up escalators, and past desks, and – and oh my poor sweet – how can you spend hours somewhere like this – no light – no air. 

For a moment, I do not know him.

He looks so – small.

His hair clasped back, as it was when he was a child.

So pale.

So – quiet.

I cannot remember ever being near Aglarcu and he had not a song in him.

I stand and look for a long moment, until he must feel my eyes on him, and he looks up.

He is silent, and I wonder if I have done the wrong thing, until I see the tears in his eyes, as he shakes his head, as he stands, slowly.

I reach out to him, and I touch his ears, not caring who sees us.

“Get your things,” I say, “I’ve come to take you home.”

 

 

 

 

 

Of course, it isn’t as simple as that. 

Nothing ever is.

There are papers to sign, apparently, and Legolas – Legolas Thranduilion, who I am for the first time seeing in his preferred environment – takes me aside as Aglarcu is collecting up bits and pieces, saying goodbye to people – people whose names I know from his letters, which of course I read, in my weak moments, how could I not, clutching desperately at the only connection I had, even though I thought I should not reach back – and I will pay for that in guilt for the rest of my life. People who may well be kind and nice as he said, only – I do not care. Legolas, it seems, has something to say to me.

I have plenty I would like to say to him, but I do not.

When all is said and done, he is my lord, he is Sindar, it is not for me to shout and shake him, to ask him what he has done, why did he not see what is become of my sweet darling?

“I am glad you have come,” he says, and I restrain myself from asking him why he did not then send for me as he continues, “I have been concerned. Aglarcu – I thought he was happy, was enjoying life here – but something seems to have changed. I don’t know. There are three weeks until the course begins – a holiday is a good idea.”

“He isn’t coming back,” I say, flat, no discussion.

Legolas opens his mouth to protest, but I lean in, I do not want others – not-elves – to hear what I am about to say.

“He sent me his ring. He took out his braids. But not because he loves another. Look at him. Who did this to him? Who hurt him? Was it you? Or one of your – friends? Your city elves with your city ways, wrong, and slick, and – and false as mortals?” then I sigh, and look away, because he is my lord, the son of my lord, and there is nothing that can change that, “it doesn’t matter. But he comes home. If in time he wants to come back, I will not stand in his way.”

I never would.

But I shall not push him again.

Then I turn to him, to my sweet one, who is, finally, finished with all the goodbyes, and paper-signing, and whatever else,

“Is there anything you need – actually need – wherever you’ve been staying? Or can we bloody well go now?”

He bites his lip, and shakes his head, although he looks worried.

Before he can begin to stammer out some anxious stream of words, Legolas – who I am coming to respect more even if I like him less – holds out a hand,

“Aglarcu, if there is nothing urgent – give me the key. I’ll get it sorted,” and then, as he takes it, he finds a moment to lean in to me, Aglarcu distracted as he twitters about the car, and will it be alright, and where is it parked, and says,

“I don’t know. Something happened with Glorfindel – you don’t know him – friend of Ada. But I don’t – I can’t believe – what you think. He wouldn’t. I know – believe me – I know he wouldn’t,” he flushes, and I am not sure what to make of the guilt in his eyes, but then he looks down and up again, and, “Caradhil – maybe I did wrong. I just wanted to – I was trying to be a good lord, to care.”

I nod, slowly, swallowing down my pain, my anger.

“I know,” I say, because I do. He tried, which is more than his father ever did, I think, and that is the most disloyal I have ever been, even in my thoughts. I nod, “hir-neth-nin,” I acknowledge him, “next time – come up for longer. Talk and listen to us.”

He rubs his nose, and for a moment I remember the elfling I knew,

“Yes. I should have listened to Gim. He said I was going about it wrong.”

Almost I could laugh.

So your dwarf knew better than you how to care for your elves, I think.

But then I look at my most precious darling, and see his pallor, his lank hair, his inability to finish a sentence – and there is no laughter left in me.


	18. Chapter 18

“Caradhil stormed into the office today,” I say, leaning against the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil. 

I have discovered that making coffee by boiling a kettle, and then dicing some fruit, unwrapping chocolate, slicing cheese – all of it takes longer than simply microwaving something good but prepared. Or than using the coffee machine.

I will not start cooking, I will not change that much just to hang on to these moments of shared kitchen time.

Besides, I would probably get in his way, annoy him.

It might even encourage him to move out sooner.

As it is, this time is one of the few times we actually speak.

Neither of us has ever been communicative in the morning.

Gim grunts, acknowledging I have spoken, but not, apparently, interested in Caradhil. 

I go on anyway,

“Took Aglarcu. Home. Said he won’t be coming back,” and there is a bit of me that is shocked by his high-handedness, and a bit of me is – slightly in awe of anyone who can feel so much, so strongly and be not afraid to show it. 

Another grunt.

“He shook me,” I say, wondering what reaction that will get.

I am not disappointed.

Gim laughs.

For an instant, all is as it should be, he laughs as he always did, loud and unrestrained.

“I’d’ve liked to see that,” he says, “you must have looked a sight. Hair everywhere. Twat.”

“It isn’t funny,” I say, clearly laughing also, “it’s a good thing there wasn’t a client there. And that security didn’t take it the wrong way. Or Caradhil would be in trouble,” and I sigh, “still. I’m glad. Aglarcu – didn’t look happy – but – he looked a bit more – alive. Like there was a light turned back on somewhere. Still a long way off, but – there.”

It isn’t a good description, but it’s the best I can do.

Gim nods.

“Good,” he says, and then looks at me, and away, back to the omelette he is cooking, “poor little sod didn’t deserve any of what happened. They’ll be alright, those two, I reckon. Get themselves back home, pretend none of it ever happened.”

I look at the back of his head, and I take a breath,

“Is that what you’d like?” I ask, “to pretend none of this ever happened?”

He goes very still.

“None of what?” he answers, and before I can speak, “none of this – you, me, finding I am queer, being – being swept off my feet by you and your money, coming away from home, changing everything?”

I shrug, even though he isn’t looking at me, and he must hear it.

“No,” he says, and it gives me hope, “no, despite all this shit, I wouldn’t be without that.”

I bite my lip and wonder how to answer, but he goes on,

“Finding you were as spoiled a little bastard as I feared? Seeing you making up to someone else? Knowing I’ll never be enough? Shit, yes, I’d give anything for that not to have happened.”

He slides the omelette onto the plate, and finds a fork, picks up plate and drink, and heads towards the living room, already thinking about what he can watch while he eats.

“But it did, Las, and you are, and I’m not,” and he walks away.

I close my eyes, and wish I knew what to do to make this right.

But I don’t.

I don’t know.


	19. Chapter 19

Curled into the landrover seat, I think I could sleep, rest, really rest.

I feel safe, and warm, and as though all will be well.

He does not talk, he simply drives, finding his way out of London as though he knows it as he does the land he has walked these hundred and fifty years or more.

Once we are on the motorway, he flicks on music, proper music, home-music, and I want to smile, to reach out and touch him.

But I cannot.

He is being kind – so kind – but I am no longer anything to him.

I threw it away.

He looks at me, and I cannot meet his eye.

He does not speak, and something in his face tightens. I shrink into myself, afraid, so afraid of the words he must be saving – for all I know I deserve to be disvowed, I am afraid of the moment he says the words, removes his ring, his braids. I never meant to shame him so.

But he does not speak, he simply reaches into the back, and pulls forward a blanket. It is an old tattered one; worn with washing it smells of home, and the land, and the life I always wanted. He shakes it out, as best he can with one hand, and hands it to me.

“No need to be cold,” he says, the first words he has spoken to me alone, “rest now. Talk later.”

I want to tell him I love him, to thank him for coming for me, but I am tired, and the blanket is warm, and the scent is good.

 

 

 

 

Waking I am cramped, but warm and happy, and he is near, at last, I can hear him breathing, I know it is him, my Caradhil, and I smile, I cannot help it.

Then my eyes begin to clear, and I see I am in the landrover, covered in this blanket, and – and I am not home, not even near home – and I remember – remember he is no longer my Caradhil, and I ache, I want to burrow down, back into dreams and hide from it all.

He reaches out, and touches me, gently, his hand on my shoulder, not my ear, not my hair, and I know I am lost to him.

“Sorry,” he says, and why is he apologising, what can he possibly have to apologise for, I wonder, but he continues, “I needed to fill up, and now – now I think I would be better to eat, maybe even rest a bit. The hotel here will be warm, you can sleep again. Wash maybe. Get you out of those clothes.”

It is still not dark outside, and I do not know where we are or why we have stopped – some service station I suppose, as he leads me into the motel.

As he said, it is warm, and I stand, not really awake, not understanding the conversation, just clutching my blanket and waiting patiently, trusting him, until he leads me to a room.

It is bland, but a comforting blue and white, and some of the furniture is wooden, and it is all clean. Caradhil shuts the blinds and curtains, flicks the lightswitches so they are not too bright, so they create an illusion of evening, of the safe firelight and dusk of home and for a moment, for a moment I imagine we are simply on a – a holiday – such as we never had – and that he will kiss me, comb me, sing with me, make love to me, hold me.

But of course those days are passed, and he is simply being kind.

He is always kind.

Now he says something about food, and I look at him blankly, not taking it in, trusting him.

He half-laughs, and shrugs, 

“Go on, lie down, here is the blanket, rest some more. I will go and get you something – I won’t be long. Don’t worry.”

And he pushes me down onto the bed, tucks the blanket round me again, and – and strokes a finger over my ear – as he always did when we were to be parted, and the memories crowd over me. All the times when he touched me, when I touched him, when – when we were happy.

We were happy. I did make him happy, I know I did.

I could again, if he would let me.

For a moment, I smile, thinking all might be well.

Then I remember; it cannot be, never again, and I roll in on myself.

I do not see him go.


	20. Chapter 20

Fuck, but I think that was Las trying – trying to make up.

Mahal, but he’s hopeless.

I want to – shake him – bloody Caradhil may have the right idea there. Shake him until he says – sorry.

That’s all I want.

At least, it would be a good bloody start.

Sorry, Gim.

I didn’t mean to upset you, Gim.

Something like that.

An opening.

I need to shout at him – to rage, to let it out – to hear him defend himself, excuse himself – I need us both to apologise, and – and fuck it out of each other.

Maybe that isn’t the mature, sensible way – but it’s the only way I know.

Part of me wanted to move out when it first happened – but I realised if I did – he wouldn’t come looking, wouldn’t even try.

So I’m still here.

We’re still moving round each other in this stupid fucking dance, waiting for – I don’t know.

What the fuck are we waiting for?

I eat in front of some bloody sports thing – he sits and nibbles at his pathetic bloody excuse for a meal, pokes away at his bloody phone – probably to Tau.

And then it hits me – what the bloody hell am I playing at?

I should talk to Ki.

That would get back.

Get things sorted.

Right.

Tomorrow.

I’ll phone him, get that moving.

Decision made, I finish my – lousy, burnt – omelette, and dump the plate in the kitchen.

Getting used to this having a cleaner lark.

Lazy bloody sod, Gimli.

Still.

I go through to the bedroom, strip and get into bed.

We’re still sleeping together – only not touching any more.

It’s a big enough bed.

Until now – I’ve not been naked in bed, but tonight – tonight I’m so busy thinking about phoning Ki, about sorting it all out, I forget, and get in like I used to.

Almost asleep – tugging away with one hand, half-heartedly, not really hoping to come, just a bit of comfort – when he gets in.

And – I’m so tired, so tired of this, that I don’t hide what I’m doing.

For a moment, his whole body goes still and quiet, like he’s biting his pretty lip.

Then – he sort of – wriggles close, and – and oh fuck.

His hand is on mine, and his lips are against my ear,

“I can do that better,” he says, “much better, Gim-love. Please? If you – let me?”

Yes, oh yes, please, darling, touch me, make love to me, show me – the words are almost there, only – only I can’t bloody say that, any of that. I may be queer, but I’m not a fucking fairy.

I grunt, and let him.

Feels so damn good.

I want to – to reach out and touch him – only – he’s so bloody good at this – I can’t, can’t do anything but – oh fuck, Las.

He kisses me, gently, on the side of my face, and then – rolls away.

“One last time,” he says, quietly, and then, “sleep tight, Gim-love.”

He drifts into his weird rest state quick enough, but I – I lie there.

Shit.

One last time.

Shit.

That – that was a good-bye.

Oh shit.

Las – I still love you.

I just – don’t know how to say sorry.


	21. Chapter 21

I lock the door, and lean against it for a moment, the first moment I have had unobserved since I found him.

I breathe, slow and calm. I will not become angry, I will not lose control. But oh my sweet one, what has happened to you?

How much do you hurt, how much have you been hurt, and by whom, why?

Because I sent you away, that is why, my conscience tells me, and I close my eyes. I have not wept in all these months, I will not start now.

For a moment, I was tempted to drive off the motorway, to look for somewhere – somewhere really special – a proper hotel – such as neither he nor I has ever visited, nor ever thought to. But I would not know where to find such a thing, and I am not, now I come to think about it, completely sure he would like it. After all, he never said he wanted to go anywhere.

Not that I ever asked, I realise. I never tried to treat him, spoil him, make a fuss of him, show him how much he means. Always it was work, and the land, and our lords. For a long time, I did not even know myself how much I cared, and when I did – oh when I did – I still – ignored it. So full I was of duty, and work, and the land, and our lords. 

And this new voice in me answers – and this is how you are repaid for all that care, all that time, all that you and he have done?

Months spent apart – and yes, yes, I made him go – but for his own good, because – because I believed hir-neth-nin’s word. And then a letter of such pain and despair. And now – now this pale, quiet elf.

This elf that I am so afraid may yet fade.

And I do not know how to stop that.

The only thing I can think to do, is to take him home – and so we will not look for a nice hotel, a special place – we will spend the rest of the day and evening here, and when I am rested, when I have seen him eat, we will go on, early in the morning, when the roads are quiet. I will take him home.

And hope he can find it in him to forgive me.

Now, I don’t like leaving him, but I need to eat, and so does he.

He looks dreadful.

I don’t know – I’m not sure I want to know – what has happened, but it occurs to me that perhaps he had best tell me, if only so I can assure him it does not matter.

Maybe if we have a talk here, it will help. Somewhere that is not home, that is neutral ground, all the words can be said, and then forgotten, left behind with the pain.

Maybe.

Get that ring on his finger again, if he will let me.

If he can forgive me for making him go.

Now though, I walk away from the door, along the corridor, past reception. The girl at the desk smiles at me, and I realise she probably thinks I am – what is the phrase – having an illicit afternoon with a lover – and on company expenses. 

The thought makes me smile as I walk across the carpark. It is so close to accurate – and so far. 

I did use the estate credit card.

They owe me.

As for the rest – oh my poor Aglarcu.

I am not sure he is in any state to make love, dearly as I would like to, to show him how much I feel, how I have missed him – but I don’t know how to ask. We never spoke of such things, never had the words, not really. I never knew how – it never seemed necessary. I reached for him, he was always there.

For the first time it occurs to me that he never reached for me – only ever waited.

And I am ashamed.

Not many afternoons of love in our past either, now I come to think about it. Always it was something to round off the day, before rest. Never lingering, never – never all the things that they say it can be, not once that first obsessed greedy two days was over.

I am ashamed.

So many things done so very wrong. No wonder he – he was so easily hurt.

No hotels, or holidays, or treats, or – days where I put him first. No afternoons of lovemaking.

I stop in the car park, and watch blindly as people walk from cars to the building. Some of them working, some of them not, and for the first time, I realise how easily, how casually affectionate they are.

Touching in public – as I thought one should not do – as I would not do, even when he was leaving me, when I thought I might not see him again, when my heart ached to do so – still I would not.

Talking, in person or on phones, speaking words of affection, of love, of – I am shocked to hear – lust even – what it is to be an elf, mortals do forget how we hear them – words I never said even at the most – intimate – moments. 

So much done wrong, so many mistakes.

No afternoons of lovemaking.

I always thought I had tried so hard to care for him, to be all I should be, could be for him. I never realised how the world has changed from the years when I was young. I wonder now if he realised, if he always realised, or only recently. I wonder now how often, how many times I have hurt him.

Always I seem to have hurt him, right from the beginning when I took advantage of his youth, his innocence.

But since then, since I – I was getting what I wanted every night – not one single afternoon of lovemaking, of – of concentrating purely on him. 

I never thought. I never tried to find words. Never tried to – I don’t have the words – to show him what he means to me.

I suppose for a long time, I did not even know myself, so lost in my own old longing.

But I should have seen earlier.

And when once I had – I should have found some way to tell him, show him.

There is no way, it seems to me, that I can ever make this right.

But there is no-one else to even try, and so I make myself move on. I go into the main building, brightly lit, noisy, busy, and know I was right – however much I don’t like leaving him alone, he was in no state to manage this.

Even as I think it, I remember the office, the artificial light, the noise, the horrible used and reused feel of the air; I remember the streets, noisy and busy, and I feel more guilt.

I sent him there.

How will he ever forgive me?

The hot food for sale looks and smells – plastic. 

I would not give that to my worst enemy, and certainly not to my poor sweet. 

Then I see there is a – well, it calls itself a quality express food store – the line of customers makes me dubious, and as for quality – it will have to do, I suppose.

When I return, he is still asleep.

For a long moment, I sit by his side, and look at him.

I want – I so want – to take him in my arms, to touch his ears, comb his hair, hold him close, kiss him, warm him in the way he always warmed me, always drove the cold and loneliness away. 

But he is asleep.

And I am not sure I have the right to love him. Not after my neglect.

I sit, patient as I have learnt to be these many years out on the land, watching, and wait until he moves, half-stirs.

Then I take his hand, just his hand, and I do not let myself wonder at the look of pain in his eyes as he wakes, do not let myself weep for his hesitancy.

“Wake a bit,” I say, and as he looks at me, “come on, let’s get you out of these clothes, clean, into something more – suitable. And then eat.”

He nods, quiet and docile, and where is my Aglarcu gone? What has happened to the mischievous elf who would no more have stood and let me strip him, let me run a bath, help him into it, without hands everywhere, hands pulling at my clothes, whispers and flirting looks, and kisses, than he would have – have sat silent and sleeping for hours when we were alone in a car, the first time we had been together in all these months?

You drove him away, Caradhil, you sent him away from all he knew, all he loved; you pushed him into that wilderness of offices and strange people, that concrete jungle. You delivered him into the hands of – of what, exactly?

He sits in the bath, no energy even to wash, and I wonder if I should have made him eat first.

I don’t know.

I don’t know whether I will do more harm than good by making him speak.

But I can’t just do nothing. I have to try.

I kneel beside the bath, and I wash him, gently, trying to show him I care, I do care so very much.

He sits, still quiet, still passive, and there is still no response, no song in him.

“Come now,” I say, “duck under – let me wash your hair out.”

He closes his eyes, and does, and for a moment I think he has not the desire to resurface, but a light touch on his hand, and he is sitting again, eyes still closed. The water runs down his face, and suddenly I realise it is not just bathwater. Those are tears.

And I think my heart might break.

But that would hardly help him now.

Instead, I use my hands to begin to comb through his hair, to take the tangles away.

“You haven’t been looking after this,” I say, and the tone of voice is the one I would use to an elfling, chiding gently, reassuring – trying to reassure, “going to take a while to get the shine back. I suppose the water is disgusting there. And – have you been using some nasty – whatever it is – shampoo?”

He nods, and shrugs, and flushes, and almost, almost he seems closer to himself.

Then his eyes close tighter again, and the tears flow, and his hands are over his face, his shoulders heaving – and I don’t know what to do, what to say.

So I just carry on playing with his hair, muttering about silly elves who don’t look after themselves properly, and when he is calmer, I start telling him about the land, about what has happened, where the deer run, how the lynx project is going, how are elves he knows. Not that there is much to tell.

He hasn’t really been away that long.

I say that, and he sobs again.

And now – unreasonably – and I will be ashamed later – but now, I am angry.

“Right,” I say, “enough of this. Out of the bath, you are at least clean, come on, up, out, towels, here, and you come and sit and tell me what this is all about. And why – why that letter? If you didn’t want me to come and get you, which is what it seems like from the weeping – why come with me? What is going on?”

Part of me is looking on in horror at myself, because I think I might know, but – he has to say it, whatever it is.

If he does not want me, then he must say it.

But once I get him wrapped in towels, and dried off, and into – into an old worn shirt of mine, and cotton trousers, which I think started off as his, and then were mine, and now he needs them once more – a towel wrapped round his hair, he still looks so – cold.

I could curse myself for not having brought something warmer, a hoody, tracksuit, something like that. We do own them, I just – didn’t think.

It isn’t winter, isn’t snowing, it didn’t occur to me he might be cold.

Stupid.

Elves who are ill – close to – to fading – feel cold. 

But I didn’t want to think that.

I still don’t.

There is a chill inside me at the thought – but weeping and wailing is not going to help. If he needs me to take care of him, then I had better pull myself together, and take care of him.

I sigh, and boil the kettle.

“Drink this,” I say, and think that holding the mug will help him as well – warm his hands, and steady him a bit, “hot milk. With sugar. Revolting. Just how you like it.”

Almost he smiles.

I sit by him, arm round him, and he leans into me.

“Please,” he says, and thank Elbereth, a word, and a request, whatever, whatever you want, tell me, only tell me, sweetheart, and I’ll make it so, “please, Caradhil, don’t – don’t take your braids out tonight. Please. Tomorrow. I know, I know, tomorrow. But not tonight. Please. Not until – until you leave me at the home of my parents.”

For a moment, I sit very still. Then I say,

“I had no intention of removing them. Why? Are you asking me to?”

He shakes his head, and I think he will spill what is left of the milk, the way he is shaking, so I take it from him, and I lean him back against me, my hand playing again with his hair, and I want so badly to tilt his face to me, to see those eyes looking up at me, to kiss him, to hold him close and safe and warm, to see him smile, make him cry out for me, and cling, and be mine – only – that isn’t what he needs. 

So I don’t.

I just hold him, and I keep my voice calm as I say,

“What happened?”

He shakes his head again, and burrows close, so,

“What happened? You will not believe me if I say it does not matter before you have told me it all. So tell me.”

Again the burrowing.

Oh my sweet one.

“Legolas said,” and for once I drop the respectful title, I do not feel very respectful at this moment, as I force myself to stay calm, “something about – Glorfindel. Who is he? What happened?”

He breathes and then the words start.

“A friend – of hir-nin – of Legolas as well – I don’t know – old – older than you – older than hir-nin,” and I smile, because I am older than hir-nin, but never mind, “he – I thought it would be alright – they have different rules – but – he wore braids – he had – one he is vowed to – only – only Legolas would have gone with him – gone home with him – but Legolas is not – not properly vowed – you noticed that – you said – that dwarf had not vowed with him – no rings, no braids – and he would have gone home with Glorfindel – and – and you always said – Silvans for Sindar – loyalty – and they had danced together – all the time – and the dwarf didn’t like it – it upset him, hurt him – but to begin with – I didn’t understand how they could – only someone said – it didn’t matter, it was only dancing – and I thought maybe – maybe in the city that was how it was – you said – city elves are different – but I couldn’t let Legolas do _that_ – he loves his dwarf – and it would have been the end of them – so – so I said I would see he got home – Glorfindel – he was drunk – only not completely drunk. Just too much – I don’t know what they drink – and I had had whisky – but not enough to not know what I was doing – maybe I shouldn’t have driven the bike – but – he couldn’t – only he would have – so I did – and he said come in, see him upstairs, sit down, have a drink, get warm, and – and I was cold – and it was a long walk home – and – and then he said – just – stay for a bit – just once – he was cold and lonely – his Erestor wasn’t there – and – and then – he kissed me – and I don’t think he meant anything by it – he’s just that sort – only – only I was cold – and he – he was so big and strong, and – and sure of himself – and he kept saying just stay a bit – and then – then I woke and I knew what I had done – and – but he didn’t mean it – they don’t think like that – only I knew you would – and I do – and yet I had – so – so now – you can’t want me – and I don’t know what I will do.”

Then he stops and I hold him, tight, so tight, and I – I don’t know – I don’t know who I am more angry with.

“I was just so cold, and he was so sure, and he felt so nice, and – and he seemed so sad, and lonely, and,” he shrugs again.

“Stop it,” I say, because I can’t bear it, for all I wanted him to speak, now that he does, I can’t bear it, it’s like a ghost rising up and accusing me of all my sins, “please. I’m sorry.” I swallow, and I know what I must do, in all honesty I have been hiding from this for too long, “I’m sorry. What I did – I was wrong. I should never have touched you, never have kissed you, never taken advantage. And I – I shouldn’t have let you think – that it tied you. I was wrong. And unfair. And – I knew it – knew you were too young for me – that I had no right to do that – that you didn’t know, didn’t understand. I’m sorry,” and then, before I can stop myself, before I can let myself realise what I am doing, feel the ache and loneliness return, think about the coldness of a house with no sweet darling, “you aren’t tied. Not any more. You – you should be – able to do whatever you want. If you want – to be like them – a city elf – or not – but – you aren’t tied to me. You – what happened – all those years ago – I was wrong. Wrong to touch you when you – you weren’t in a position to think about it clearly.”

Admitting it hurts.

Losing him hurts.

Hurts him as well, I think, because – because I don’t believe – even now, even as I face what I did to him – I don’t believe that he wishes to be released, wishes to leave me.

But what I did to him – was wrong.

And I knew it. I knew it then, and I know it now, and I have known it for all the years between.

So – I have to offer this. What else can I do?

But of all things – he is laughing.

“Oh Caradhil,” he says, and he leans against me, “oh Caradhil. There is no comparison. I – what happened – between us – I wanted it. I had wanted it for so long. Before I even knew what it was I wanted. Always. When I was little – I used to talk about you – endlessly – tell my parents how I was going to grow up and work with you – live with you – how you would take care of me.”

I shake my head, because that is hardly the point, but before I can speak,

“Whenever they were cross with me – and I suppose I deserved it at least some of the time – I used to say I would run away and live with you, and you wouldn’t let them shout at me – you wouldn’t mind if I – oh whatever I had done – got mud everywhere, forgotten something, broken a plate, torn clothes.”

I can’t help it, even at this moment, I laugh,

“You are dreadful. Poor them. And you still break things, tear things, walk mud about,” although, if I am honest, he has always, always tidied up afterwards, so scared that I would throw him out, so dependent on me. I am ashamed again, but for a wonderful moment, I bury my head in his hair, “I have missed you so. It has been so quiet and tidy.”

Then I remember,

“But that doesn’t matter. I had no business touching you, kissing you – any more than this – Glorfindel – did.”

He falls silent, and I could curse myself for such words.

Except they are true.

Glorfindel was drunk – I had been drinking.

Aglarcu, it seems, had had a drink. Not drunk, not as I have seen him, laughing and unable to walk, but – smiley, and affectionate. Easy to take advantage of his nature, his willingness to please.

Glorfindel – used the right words. Asked in a way that made him seem needy, cold, lost.

And though I never said it – I am sure my desperation was clear in every touch of my hands, every breath I took.

And more than anything – Glorfindel is, from the sound of it, someone he respects, or thinks he should, someone to be looked up to, admired. As I was.

Then he says,

“You had every reason to do – what we did – every reason. You wanted to. I wanted to. I loved you,” and even as I hold him, and smile into his hair, and feel for a few sweet moments that perhaps I was not so very wrong – I feel his body tense once more, and he goes on, “I made it clear. I – oh Caradhil – I more than made it clear. I came to you that night – I knew what I wanted – I knew you would never ask – I made sure I was wet through so you would think I needed to change – and still you would not look at me – I let you think I was so cold, so in need of you – I loved you so.”

Oh.

Almost I laugh, because – because I had never thought, never realised – perhaps I was too old, too long since I was a starry-eyed not-quite-adult. I always knew he – he enjoyed it, wanted it, but – somehow – it never occurred to me he might have planned it, might have arrived with that outcome in mind.

Almost two centuries old, and still so naïve.

Almost four decades of him, and still underestimating him.

“I love you so,” he says again, and then, “but – I threw it away. I let you send me to London – I did not try hard enough to stay with you, to tell you hir-neth-nin was wrong. And then – I stayed there – and – and Glorfindel –”

I do not want to hear any more about this Glorfindel.

He is not important. What happened – _whatever_ happened – is not important. 

Legolas – I will not say hir-neth-nin – is not important.

My guilt – right now, my guilt and need to apologise, and make him see that I am so flawed – is not important.

Aglarcu is important.

And now – now there is something that needs to be done, and only I can do it.

“You didn’t throw anything away,” I say, and now, now I do tilt his face to look at me, stroke his ears at last, lean down to his lovely mouth, “if – if you still want this. It doesn’t matter what happened. If you want to come home – really home – not just the land, and your parents’ house – home to me – to be together again – then – more than anything – please – come home, Aglarcu, I miss you,” and then, “I need you.”

He isn’t answering, he’s just looking at me, his eyes glittering with tears, and I – I don’t know what else to say.

Then I realise.

“I love you. Nothing else matters to me. I know I sent you away, I thought it was best for you. I was wrong. Forgive me. Come home.”

For a moment, I think I still have not found the words he needs, but then he winds his arms around my neck, and smiles at last.

Tremulous, perhaps, not quite as far from tears as I would like, but a smile.

“I told you,” I say, “my life is cold, and empty, and quiet, and – and so boring without you. Come home, my love.”

And of course, of course, he will, he presses up against me, his mouth opens so sweetly against mine, and oh the heat of him – no fading now, no strange chill – he clings to me, and for all the world, it is like that first time. He, so warm, so loving – I did not know it then, but now, now I understand – so welcoming, so – oh my Aglarcu, his hands undoing me, hands in my hair, hands running over me, even as he wriggles out of his own clothes, wraps his legs round me, and his voice, the way he says my name – nothing but my name, and please, yes, please – and I – I feel like a god, like a lord, like – like the centre of the world, the universe, when he looks at me like that, I am richer than any.

Come home, did I say? He is my home – I have not been home until now – come home? No, bring me home, darling, bring me home.


	22. Chapter 22

Oh Caradhil, Caradhil, I love you so, always, always it has been you, you I want, need. And now he – he does want me – he loves me – he says none of it matters, only that we are together, says I – I can go home – back to him – he forgives me – he loves me again. I – I cling, and try to tell him how much I love him, how he is everything to me, how – how I adore him, would do anything, anything to show him I am his – always – only – I only want to be with him.

He lets me undress him, he strips me, and I can feel, see, how desperate he is – how much he has missed this. Well, so have I, if I am honest – it has been a long while, and – and we may not have been the most affectionate couple – not like some I have seen in the city nightclubs, hanging off each other in front of others – but oh, I have missed his body, his surety, his heat. 

Like this, under him, feeling him touch me, his hands on me, and then – then he is in me; I remember the first time – so long ago, yet today – today it seems very close. I wanted him so much, so urgently, had always admired him, adored him – had slowly learnt to understand what it was I felt, what I needed. For a long while, I thought he would never feel the same – only slowly once I was working for him did I see that he – he looked at me, saw the way I moved, the way my hair fell or shone, saw him swallow and look away when I touched my ears, and I knew there was a chance for me. Yet that first time – for all his years – he is an elf – he knew as little as I, perhaps less; I being so much younger – a child of a different century – had in some ways heard and learnt more, and that first time – he needed my reassurance, my encouragement, for all he wanted, was desperate to feel. Today – today in this room which is not our own, in this bed where countless others have slept and touched – today he also needs me to look up to him, ask and plead – as I am only too happy to do – he needs me to praise him, tell him he is wonderful, he is the centre of my life – and oh Caradhil, Caradhil you are, yes, please yes, you are everything to me.

 

 

 

After, lying together, he is quiet, thoughtful, and I – I am afraid again.

He is regretting this.

It was an impulse, a kind and generous impulse, but – he does not truly want me. How can he after what I did?

I reach for him, and he turns away, just a little, but I hold on.

“It is alright,” I say, “I understand. I – I will not tell of this. If you – when we arrive at the house of my parents – if you leave me, I will not reproach you, not make a claim. This is but a moment in time, a memory rewoken. I understand. I am not asking you, expecting you, to braid me, place a ring on my finger again.”

Now he looks at me, and his hold tightens,

“Sweetheart, no,” he says, and I – I want so badly to believe him, “no. It isn’t that. Only – I haven’t been honest. Again. I missed you so much.”

For a moment I don’t understand.

Then I feel sick.

But – I did – so – if he – only who – please, not someone I will have to see every day for the rest of my life?

“I don’t care,” I say, and I swallow hard, “I just – please Caradhil – don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

He frowns, and I tremble inside, but then he – he laughs,

“Oh sweet one, penneth-nin, no,” he is smiling, and I cannot help but smile back, “not that either. I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. But I should probably have told you, talked to you, only – I thought you were gone, and it seemed the right decision.”

He stops again, and I wait.

Then I put my head on one side and look up at him,

“No, oh Caradhil, you didn’t. Not wolves. Please. Or what is it? What have you done?”

He laughs, and I cannot help it, this time I am laughing because he sounds truly amused,

“No, not wolves, or bears, or anything like that,” bears, I think, were we even discussing bears? But he continues, “much smaller. Harmless really. Only I should have said. An elfling. Not all the time. Just sometimes.”

I frown, but he is still laughing, so my frown isn’t worth much.

“Sorry,” he says again, “but I don’t think Meieriel will be too impressed when I tell her you suspected bears or wolves. Do you remember Meieriel? Lives outside Edinburgh, comes up for holidays from time to time – parents still around somewhere – out near the main salmon-run – you know – forgotten their names – nice couple – made you a cake when you took them that solar powered radio – remember?”

Oh yes. Them.

“They always tell me to look after you,” I say, and he grins.

“Do they? Didn’t know that. How nice of them. Well. Maybe not – I seem to have ended up doing what they wanted, in a roundabout way. Meieriel came to see me last time she was up. I was a bit low – well, anyway – there isn’t a good way to say this. She’s pregnant. With my child.”

No.

No.

My world falls apart.

“Don’t panic, I didn’t – touch – her. Wouldn’t. And I don’t think her avowed – Artaniel – would be too happy if I did. All very clinical, modern. Bit ghastly really. Still. You – you won’t mind too much? Having the little one come and stay – be nice – wouldn’t it?”

My world is remade.

“Yes,” I say, even though I am not sure, I know nothing about elflings, and I don’t think he does either, but what matters it? I am going home, with my Caradhil, and even as I am smiling, he takes my hand, and pulls the second ring off his finger, and puts it back on mine. 

“Don’t need any more words really, do we?” he says, “just – keep it there. I’ll braid you decently before we go out tomorrow. But right now – right now, you just come here, and let me play with your lovely hair again, oh, and the rest of you, that’s my darling.”


	23. Chapter 23

The night wears on, and I find I must say it.

Somehow this place – so empty of all association as it is, so neutral – this place invites confession and talking.

“I have been remiss,” I say, and he – oh blessed Elbereth, he is my Aglarcu, almost restored to himself – he tugs my hair and runs a hand over my chest, and down, “no, penneth-nin, listen, I – oh how can I talk when you – oh.”

And I find I must roll onto him again, and hold him close, and kiss his sweet mouth, feel his hips move against me, even as I am moving on him, and – and he is mine, he loves me, he wants this, and I – I will talk to him, I will – but not now, dear Yavanna and all the Valar, not now.

Every time I try, he distracts me like this.

Late, late at night, so late it is nearly early in the morning, a time when the roads will be quietening, we wash one final time, and leave the bed, 

“I like not having to make the bed,” he says, and blushes.

We drop the key back at reception – and I am glad there is no-one there, old fool that I am – and walk out to the car.

He looks up at the sky,

“No stars here,” he says sadly, and then, I cannot help it, before he can continue,

“Only in your eyes,” I say, though I daresay mine are the same, and am rewarded with that blush once more, those lovely ears pinking round the edge, but I must not allow myself to be distracted again, we must get in the car, go home.

“I was going to say,” he starts again, as we pull back onto the motorway, “I’ll be glad to be home – see the stars properly again.”

I’m indicating to pull round a lorry, and so it is a moment before I answer, 

“Just to see the stars?” I ask, and for a moment, he flinches, and I feel guilt.

“No,” he says, looking at me, “and it is a good thing you are driving, or I would have to – I don’t know – pounce on you. Not just to see the stars. But the stars will be nice as well,” he looks under his lashes at me, and how can he do that? How can he make me feel like this after so many hours of loving? “and I can drive, you know. You forget sometimes.”

I glance at him, 

“Yes,” I say, “I know. I taught you. You are a good driver. Sorry. I was caught up in the idea of – of getting you away from there –“ I would go on, but he is laughing.

“You swept in and rescued me,” he says, and pats the dashboard, “it’s not much of a white steed though, is it?”

And whose fault is that, I wonder, looking at all the crisp packets and mars-bar wrappings, the bits of binder twine that will ‘come in useful, Caradhil, I know they will’, the mud so well-ground-in to the floor that it would not come out if you tried – thinking of the dents and scrapes, the scratches where he ‘was jumped at by the hedge’. But before I can say any of it – and I probably wouldn’t, after all, what do I care? It does the job – he runs his hand up my thigh, 

“That isn’t what I meant,” he says, and – and is this really the moment – his hand reaches higher, “I could – drive – sometimes. I could – we could – if you wanted.”

Oh.

I am silent.

Oh.

Well.

In all the years, I had never – he has never.

Oh.

But after a moment, his hand retreats, and I look across to see he is biting his lip, eyes downcast again.

Oh sweetheart.

I lick my lips, search for words.

“Maybe,” I manage, and then, “can we not talk about this now? Yes, if you want – you never said – maybe. Talk at home?”

He nods, and then, quietly,

“Don’t be cross,” and I shake my head, no, not cross sweetheart, just – what is the word – flummoxed, “it doesn’t matter.”

Only it obviously does, a bit.

“Later,” I say, “later, penneth, you can drive me to distraction, any way you choose,” watch his grin from the corner of my eye, then, searching for something to move on to, “did I tell you how well the lynxes are doing? You were right about that. I should have listened to you earlier.”

He laughs, and I suppose it is ridiculous, to go from discussing our sex life to lynx – but – I am trying to drive here.

And I am maybe a bit too proud of those lynx.

Proud of him for thinking of them, for – even after all that has happened since – for showing Legolas, for being so clever.

For not listening to me.

He is not listening now, not really, but he is not laughing at me, not in a bad way,

“Of course you should,” he says, “you should always listen to me. You forget how very sensible I am these days.”

Yes.

That is the opening I need.

“I know,” I say, and I swallow, because – I am not practiced at this, but – it needs doing, and I am the only one who can do it, “there are a lot of things I forget – or do ill. I am sorry. I – I have never taken you on holiday. Or anywhere. Never treated you, bought you things, told you – told you how much I love you, how important you are to me. I – I will try harder.”

And then his hand is on mine, gentle, as I change gear, just resting over mine, but the strength in him is clear to me.

“No,” he says, and he is thinking as he speaks, “no, you never did. But – you lived with me – spent all day and night with me – listened to me when I had ideas, taught me all I ever wanted to know – let me learn what you could not teach – bought me the technology I needed to use – walked at my side – understood my thoughts when I had not words – matched my pace when we climb – held me close when we slept. I don’t know where these thoughts have come from, Caradhil-mine, but – there is nothing I need I have not, nothing I desire you do not give,” he is quiet a moment, and I suppose I should speak, but I can’t, “we are not city-elves. I have seen how they live, and – now I want to go home.”

I nod.

But inside, I resolve – there must be some good things in the city. I shall wait, and listen, and – and I will find something to please you.

Failing that, I will – set aside more time for us to – be together.

The estate could swallow all our days – but it need not.

Hir-nin – you and your son owe us that.


	24. Chapter 24

I try phoning Ki, next day.

He isn’t there – well, it’s a bloody mobile, so he is there – he just – isn’t sodding answering.

I leave a voicemail, text him.

_Call me._

He doesn’t, for hours, and when he does – he is in the bloody pub, I can hear.

“You alright?” he slurs, and then, “oh for – hold on – I’ll take it outside.”

Shit.

“What?” he asks, and – I don’t know how to say any of it.

“Just – where are you?” Mahal on a stick, that sounds a bit needy.

“At home, well, outside the Nags’ Head right now. Which is pretty much home. It’s Ori’s birthday Saturday, we’re celebrating. Cos he won’t be around then, he’ll be too busy. Going on a dirty weekend – come Monday he won’t be able to bloody walk,” and he laughs, and – shit. 

All I can think is – lucky fucking Ori.

Home, friends, family – and a boyfriend.

Shit.

What kind of fucking mess am I in that I’m envying Ori?

Ori. Jesus.

He wears cardigans, for fucks sake.

“Oh,” I say, and then, “doesn’t matter, Ki. I thought – doesn’t matter.”

He grunts.

Then,

“Ok. Only Tau said – never mind.”

Oh.

“She there?” I ask, because if she is, then maybe – I don’t know.

“No,” he sighs, “she’ll be up next weekend. You not seen her? Thought her and Las would be catching up?”

“I’ve been busy,” I say, vaguely, because I don’t know if they’ve been talking – probably. But mostly because I don’t want to explain the whole sorry mess to Ki.

He chunters on for a bit, and then off he goes, back indoors.

I look at my phone for a bit.

Could phone Tau.

But.

Shit.

I may not know much about relationships – but one thing I know. There are only two people in this – me and Las.

No good going crying to someone else, dragging other people in. Not really.

Never come between man and wife, that’s what my Da always says. ‘Course, he didn’t mention boyfriend and boyfriend, but – maybe it’s the same.

I’m sitting there thinking all this when Las comes in.

Quiet.

I can feel his eyes on me for a moment, then he sighs and goes to shower and change, like he always does first thing he gets home.

I remember how he used to bounce in the door, all loud and happy, how I used to be in the shower with him.

Shit.

It’s only a few months ago.

But it feels like years.


	25. Chapter 25

I stand in the shower, and I am grateful, so grateful, for the noise of the water that it covers my – my sobs.

I can’t remember the last time I cried like this.

But he does not come to me, he does not look at me, he does not acknowledge me when I walk in the door.

Part of me wants to shout, to scream – this is my bloody flat – look at me, speak to me you tosser, you shit, you unreasonably suspicious bastard. 

You Naug.

And part of me, part of me just wants to go to him, and ask – what can I do – what can we do – to make this right?

How can something which was so good, so very perfect, have gone so horribly wrong?

I begin to wonder if I should apologise – only – I have, as much as seems reasonable. I did nothing wrong, nothing, I did not kiss, did not touch, did not flirt, not properly. 

A little perhaps.

But – it was more of a joke, a bit of fun, Glorfindel knew there was nothing meant by it. 

As I have said, Glorfindel wanted nothing more – he wanted only someone to – to dance and laugh with.

Maybe I was foolish not to see how it might upset Gim, but I did not.

Well.

I suppose, perhaps, I wondered if he was pissed off enough – would he relent, would he relax, dance with me, laugh a bit more, play?

Still.

I did nothing wrong. He is unreasonable.

I don’t see why I should apologise.

But I wish things were different between us.

I am still thinking these things as I leave the shower, tying a towel around my waist, letting my hair hang free. He is in the kitchen, and I – I am not in the mood tonight to pretend.

I ate at lunchtime, a little, I am not hungry.

I begin to flick around, looking for something to watch.

 

 

 

 

 

He opens the door to me, and looks at me, one brow raising in question.

“Legolas, what are you doing here? It is a Saturday morning. Do you not have – more amusing things to be doing? With your Gimli, for example?”

I shrug.

“I was passing,” I say, and indicate my running gear, thinking again that it is wonderful to be an elf, and not sweaty, “and it occurred to me that it is a few weeks since I saw you.”

And I was worried, have been worried, about you, about your drinking, your loneliness.

And home is not awfully appealing – a silent flat, a silent, sulking boyfriend – if he is still my boyfriend.

Ada looks at me some more, and then steps back,

“Come inside then,” he says, turning away, “why not?”

I follow him into the immaculate house, and yes, yes I would be grateful for a drink.

For a moment, I wonder what he will offer, but I am reassured when he goes to the fridge and passes me a bottle of water, pouring juice for himself.

I cannot smell alcohol in it.

Perhaps I am being silly.

Except if it was vodka, I wouldn’t be able to, would I?

For a while we stand, looking out into the garden, and he tells me of the changes he is planning there as plants die, need replacing, pruning, moving. He falls silent, and I know I am not contributing much to this, but – what the fuck do I know about plants?

Suddenly he says,

“The beech tree is dying. It will have to come down.”

I nod, not completely sure which one it is.

He stares out of the window, his face tight, devoid of emotion.

“It is almost the last thing left that your mother planted,” and then, “the one that you wanted to have a swing on, once. And I said no.”

Oh.

That one.

I nod, and then realise something more is needed.

“I didn’t know she planted that,” I say, though I suppose I could have guessed, if I’d thought about it. At least, that she would have seen it.

It was in the pictures of her, Thalion, Ada and I.

“I didn’t mind about the swing,” I add, not entirely truthfully, “it was almost the only thing you ever said no about. And there was one at school. I don’t suppose I would have used it much – you never liked me to play in the garden.”

Something in him seems to flinch, and then he stays still and silent once more.

The pause stretches out.

“I am sorry,” I say, hopelessly trying to – to reach out, to communicate with him – for fucks sake, ‘Las, I think, you’re a gay elf, you’re supposed to be good at this words and emotions thing – but it seems I am too much Ada’s son, “that it is dying, I mean.”

He shrugs.

“Trees do that,” he says, and then, “most things do.”

Yes.

I suppose they do.

Shit.

Gim.

One day, Gim will die.

I’ve always known that, of course I have, he’s a dwarf, they die. Plants die, animals die, trees die. Men die, hobbits die, dwarves die. Mortals die.

Sometimes elves die.

And for a moment, pushing aside the thought of Gim, I think of Aglarcu, of how pale and sad he looked, of what might nearly have happened. Of what that would have done to Caradhil.

I think of Glorfindel speaking of that friend of his who died, of how that hurt.

For an instant, I wonder again where he and Erestor are – whether they will come back – whether he will get them both killed – or whether Erestor will talk their way out of any difficulties.

I think of how long they were apart, over pride and anger, and – I am not quite sure what else – stuff, he said, stuff getting in the way. 

Then I think of Gim, my proud, angry Gim. My Gim that I have hurt so much. 

My Gim who will one day die, who will age almost before my eyes, so short his life-span.

And I tremble.

“Ada,” I start, and I don’t know what I would go on to say, because he interrupts,

“Legolas, do not start. You have obviously had an argument with him. I can see you twisting at that ring quite clearly. I am not a fool,” he sighs, impatient as I so often make him, “but since you seem to need it plain – I do not like the thought of you with a dwarf, but if he is who you want – stop this idiotic behaviour. Either marry him or stop playing with him.”

I flush.

I wonder if other people’s fathers speak like that. 

Not that I would change Ada if I could.

I look at him, and I want – I want to ask about his courting of my mother – of how that was – whether they argued – what was she like? Were they happy always, did they argue?

I take a breath, I tell myself I can do this, I am a grown-elf, Ada loves me, I can have this conversation.

Even as I start,

“Ada –“

He turns and walks away, picks up a stack of papers, and begins to speak,

“Caradhil has sent the quarterly report,” he flicks through it, “I do not think there is much to be surprised at, although it is noticeably shorter than sometimes. Almost as if he is not so concerned for our good opinion.”

_Your_ good opinion, I think, after what I did, the mess I made, I don’t think he cares for mine at all – but I don’t say it.

“And he informs me – not asking, note, he informs me – he is to become a father later next year, and will need paternity leave. As will Aglarcu, apparently.”

What?

Ada looks over the papers at me,

“Oh, do not be a fool. Caradhil has come to an arrangement – I do not care to consider how – with,” he waves his hand vaguely, “a Silvan lady. She and her partner will have the majority of the care of the child, he and Aglarcu some. Sensible enough idea, I daresay. But the important question is whether the estate can manage without both of them for a time. Let us hope so.”

Indeed.

And then he is talking about some other scheme of Caradhil’s, and on, and – and the moment to ask about Naneth disappears.

As it always does.

On the way home, half a bottle of wine inside me despite my reluctance, late in the afternoon, I remember the flinch when we spoke of the garden, and I wonder how much of the reserve, the distance between us is deliberate and how much is in the nature of him. Does he prefer his solitude, as I have always thought, or is it only a desperate shield?

And for the first time, I ask myself – is that what I might one day become?


	26. Chapter 26

Been one of those long Saturdays when the hours drag. You know you should be doing something – but it’s Saturday, fucked if I feel like bloody working or studying, I want a day off, deserve a day off don’t I? 

So I just sit around, watching crap on the telly, flicking from channel to channel, surfing the internet a bit, texting mates, not really doing anything.

Wasting time.

Not admitting to myself that I’m – fuck – waiting for Las to get home, hoping we can – I don’t bloody know – have a fucking conversation – make up.

Shag.

And just the thought of it – fuck but I’m hard and desperate, and I want, I want – oh Las, I want you so much.

But you don’t want me anymore, you don’t even fucking see me.

He wanders in, off in his strange little world, thinking about something, and I – I want to shout, to ask where the fuck he’s been – he went for a run about eight, and now it’s, what, gone four – where the bloody hell have you been? 

Only it isn’t my business any more.

So I don’t.

I just – grunt.

Wonderful, Gimli, that’ll help.

All these words, longings, apologies going round in my head – but no, all I can do is grunt.

He doesn’t even seem to notice, and I wonder again where has he been and who with?

Shit.

And of course, he’s straight in the bloody shower – wood elf be buggered, water elf he seems like – stays in there for far longer than anyone bloody needs.

Unless he’s washing – I don’t know – guilt – away.

Fuck.

Wood elf has been buggered, perhaps?

Oh shit.

No.

But – things he’s said – I know he doesn’t like to go without – doesn’t see it as – as anything much, beyond fun. Not with casual pickups, or old flames. 

Shit.

I remember that wank – that wank that had me thinking we were getting back together – and realise – no, it just meant I was being relegated to the old flames category. Someone easy to have, when there’s no better alternative.

Oh Christ.

He gets out the shower, and parades about in his towel for a bit, all wet and sleek, and wonderful, all flicky hair and swaying hips.

But it’s just habit, it doesn’t mean anything, he doesn’t want me anymore.

So I don’t look, don’t respond.

And he goes off, tarts himself up – which takes bloody hours – and then,

“I’m going out,” he says, “dancing. It’s Saturday. I – I’ll be late, I guess.”

I nod, trying not to look, trying to cover my lap, don’t want him to see how hard I am at the sight of those leather trousers, that arse, that hair, that makeup. And the boots.

Real fuck-me boots, he called them.

Trying to be Erestor, he is – and that hurts the most, I think, that he isn’t content to be Las, the most beautiful, perfect, clever, fun person I ever met – the elf I fell in love with. No, he has to try to be – what Glorfindel wants.

Because my love – was never enough.

He stops, hand on the door, and says,

“You want to come, maybe? Come dancing Gim?”

I look at him, at his back, ramrod-straight, at the light touch of his hand on the doorframe, at the waterfall of hair, and – if he would turn, look at me, show me he means it, wants me – then yes. Yes, I will come, follow you, learn to be what you want – try, anyway.

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t turn and look.

And I won’t – can’t bear to go, to be included from pity.

“No,” I say. 

He doesn’t duck his head in sorrow, he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t show the slightest emotion.

“Don’t wait up then,” he says, cold as ice.

The door slams behind him.


	27. Chapter 27

It’s been a good night, met up with quite a group in the end – Hal, his current, Guy, Charlie, Xander – been good.

Really good.

Could have pulled – could have brought someone home, gone home, had my fun while I was out – but I didn’t.

I’m quite proud of myself for that.

Again – I didn’t.

I could have, but I didn’t.

I want to wake Gim, tell him, say look, that counts for something, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it? 

I’m not such a slapper as you think me – not so bad – not false, and – and whatever the rest of it was.

I love you.

But he’s asleep, and – by the time I’ve showered away the smell of drink and strangers, I don’t have the courage. Because what if he glares at me again, or shrugs, or just – grunts? 

Then – then I will have to accept it is over.

All the time I keep on like this, keep on hiding, and hoping, and not talking – then maybe, maybe something miraculous will happen.

Make it better.

I don’t know what.

All this going round in my mind as I shower, and dry.

In the end, I run out of thoughts, excuses, and I go to bed. 

Climb in beside him, and he – he’s so warm, and suddenly I feel cold, want to curl up against him, run my hands over – and he feels so good, so hairy and – and oh he is hard, and the scent of him – bury my head in him, inhale, and – and I want – oh I want.

I – what is the phrase? I can resist everything, except temptation.

Those this evening – that wasn’t temptation.

Hal’s hand on my arse, that wasn’t temptation, the offer of a threesome, that wasn’t temptation.

The pretty stranger in the loos – that wasn’t temptation.

This – this now, sleepy warm, gorgeous, perfect, darling Gim – this is temptation.

I should probably resist – we haven’t talked about this – what does this mean – to either of us – I don’t know.

I only know I have no intention of resisting.

Condom on, lube, and – and I am riding him, sitting astride him, looking down, smiling throwing my head back, showing him how lovely I am, letting his hands on my hips guide me, and I – I know what he wants, how he likes it, needs it, and – and oh yes, yes, Gim, yes.

Disengage, carefully, tying off the condom, throwing it towards the bin – nice to be an elf, perfect aim, good sight in the dark – lean down and over him, snuggling against him, my face pressed into his chest.

His arms round me.

No words spoken, no words needed.

Love you, Gim.

Know you love me too.

Drifting to sleep again.

Perfect.


	28. Chapter 28

Fuck.

Wasn’t a dream.

Could have been – sticky doesn’t mean anything, dreams leave you sticky – except – he’s all curled round me now.

Sleeping – or whatever his weird elf thing is called – never did find out – but curled round me.

Spooned up close.

Arms holding me tight, long legs wrapped round me, his breath on my face, his cock against my arse.

His hardening cock against my arse.

Oh.

Like that is it?

Part of me wants to pull away, to demand words, but – his hands start moving, roving gently over me, and – and if I pull away we’ll be straight back to shouting or ignoring.

So I just – let him touch, and move my leg forward, and – and oh Las – one cool finger slips in, and – oh Mahal I never thought this would feel so good – but I know it does, know what I want, and I’m pushing back against him, encouraging, and he – he must have put the condom on one-handed because I can feel it – and even as he enters me, feels so good, I want to – bloody hell, to cry – because he’s been around so damn much, he doesn’t even have to think about it. And somehow that hurts.

But then he moves again, and all the clichés are true – this is just – so fucking good – ah, my Las, my pretty, clever Las – more, more – yes. Fuck, yes.

Feel him come, feel his breath, want so much to hear his cries of my name – but no, he doesn’t.

It doesn’t mean anything to him then.

Get control of my breath again.

Feel him pull out, and as he is fiddling around with cleaning up, I roll away, walk to the shower – aching for him to follow me, hold me, make it all right – there don’t have to be words, Las, but – please?

He doesn’t.

He is in the kitchen by the time I’m out and dressing, but I don’t go through to see what he’s doing. Mainlining coffee I expect. Or some ghastly chocolate espresso – sweet and strong enough to kill.

I don’t care.

What difference does it make now?

Instead, I find my jacket and head out.

I don’t bother telling him where I’m going – I don’t know – he doesn’t care.

I just need to get away.


	29. Chapter 29

I hear the door slam – and – I put down the knife, go to see – hoping – but – he has gone.

Uselessly I stand there, biting my lip for a long moment, before the smoke alarm starts beeping, and I go to turn it off, turn the bacon.

I look at the bacon.

I don’t want it.

Not now.

Coffee and a bacon roll – I thought – I remembered – that first morning – on the beach.

After last night – and this morning – I thought all was well – I thought we had – got over this latest stupidity.

I let the bacon cook, in the end, might as well, it will be useful for something, I suppose.

Sit and drink the coffee.

Staring into space.

I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know – how do people make up – we had sex – I thought we made love, but no, if he could walk out this morning – I suppose not.

I could text him.

But why should I?

Why should I go crying for him to come back?

No. I swore to myself after Hal – I will not be that pathetic ever again.

I will not.

I could change the locks.

Leave his things with the concierge.

Just – get rid of him, get this over.

Maybe that would be best.

Or I could simply – let this continue. See what happens.

Hope that something will shock us both out of it, drive us together again.

Hands curled around my coffee, I fantasise, some kind of – I don’t know – crisis – perhaps his parents – Ada – something awful but not ultimately tragic – something that we would need each other. Only the way we are at the moment, I suspect it is more likely we would turn to our separate friends, blame the other for some minor mistake – drive the wedge deeper.

Well, then, something awful outside of us – I don’t know – something that hurt someone else – not that I want anyone hurt, least of all Ki and Tau, the most likely candidates to reconcile us – but then I face the truth. Anyone hurt, and he would blame me. My – what were the words – selfishness, flirtiness, spoiltness, whatever it was. It would all be my fault.

He would never see that he hurts me, hurts others too I daresay, with his truculence, his uncompromising surliness, his independence, his doubts and fears.

More than anything, I think, as I blow on the coffee, cold now, but still pretty in its rippling, more than anything, we hurt each other.

Over and over, we tear at each other, wanting reaction, wanting the joy of making up, wanting – wanting unconditional love.

But I don’t believe in it.

Not in giving it.

I want it – want him to accept me as I am with all my faults, love me for them, not despite them – but I won’t give it, won’t accept him.

Hands shaking, I put down the mug, and lean on the table, aghast at who I am.

I think about Aragorn, putting up with Arwen’s family, and her love for them, her reluctance to hurt them, how she makes him dance to their tune – about Arwen not caring that Aragorn is insufferably cheery, and patronising in the extreme at times – nor that his personal grooming standards are approximately those of a ferret.

A particularly grubby ferret at that.

I think about Ki, splitting his time between home and here, saying no to his family, no, I will not always be there, not any more, I have new priorities – and I think of Tau, doing the same, and saying to me – no, I cannot come out, cannot come round, sort yourself out Las.

I think of Caradhil – sending Aglarcu to London, agreeing with me it was best for him – I think of the pain etched into him, the months of it in his face when he came down – and yet, he came. Aglarcu took out his braids, sent back the ring – yet Caradhil came. 

Caradhil sent him away, as he saw it, forced him to go, said he needed him not, would not even speak while he was away – yet when he came – Aglarcu forgave it all – saw not even that forgiveness was needed.

I think about Erestor, watching as Glorfindel danced with me, laughed with me, flirted with me.

And I think of Glorfindel, shrugging and saying – Erestor does not dance with others, prefers to watch, to be alone.

Not trying to change the other – just – accepting.

Which is what I want, demand, of Gim. I won’t change, as Tau and Ki have, won’t compromise. I want to be who I am, loved for myself – isn’t that what unconditional love means?

Love which means never having to say you’re sorry.

Isn’t that proper love? 

That’s what I want. I won’t settle for less.

But I don’t give it.

I think of Ada, and the garden, for which he cares little – I know he does not, he does not like plants or trees, not for themselves. But time and money he spends keeping it perfect, planning, thinking even though it hurts him – how would Naneth want it?

Vaguely, I know he was almost estranged from his father, almost expelled from School, after some escapade, I know not what, that was to do with Naneth – because they had met, and loved, and would be together, whatever the risks, the costs.

I could do that, I think – I could do something dramatic and exciting – it is the day to day mundanity that defeats me.

In all honesty, it seems to me now, it often has been. Not always – I will not take the blame for every failed relationship – but all too often – nothing much is wrong – simply nothing is perfect, nothing and no-one can sustain the excitement, the rush of the new.

So I manufacture an excuse, an impossible dream – and when they fail, I walk away, battered but unbowed, a survivor.

A liar.

And I sit and hold my head in my hands, wondering what I am, what I can make of myself, as time passes.


	30. Chapter 30

Been walking, thinking, all day.

Went round to see Bain – friend of a friend from home – was wondering if there might be a flatshare going.

He was alright, maybe, but then – one mention of my boyfriend troubles – and the other guy is looking twitchy and ‘oh I think so and so said he wanted the room’, and – I could argue, but why bother?

Do I want to live with someone like that?

Bain – who isn’t so bad – has the grace to look embarrassed – mutters about let him know if I’m really stuck.

Walk some more.

Text Ki, but he’s not in London, or if he is, he’s hiding.

I’ve got other flatshares I could be chasing up, but – the thing is, I don’t want to move out. Not really.

I want everything to be alright again.

And I don’t know what Las wants, how to get there, but – this isn’t going to help.

Moving out won’t help.

Keep thinking about my parents – they’d laugh – well, maybe not at the moment, but there was a time they’d laugh at the idea of me thinking about them for advice.

But – they’ve been married a long time.

They argue – Christ and Mahal but they can argue – but that’s the point. They shout, and have been known to throw things, but – they never, ever let go until it’s – whatever it is – fought out.

And then they go on, smiling, until the next time.

Not this ridiculous silence, and sex without admitting it, and sulking that we’ve been doing.

We could carry on, I know, both of us as stubborn as each other, until – well, until something else goes wrong – or he changes job, something like that – and we fall apart. 

Or we could keep hoping for some kind of outside intervention.

Only we don’t have friends like that, thank fuck, and great calamities, catastrophes – I don’t want that.

I don’t know about Las, but I know if something – something awful – happened – I’d be there, like a shot, for him. And whatever needed doing, I’d do. Hurt someone, walk through fire, hold him in public – anything.

Why is it so difficult then, to just – go and say – I’m sorry.

I didn’t mean any of this to go so far.

Can we start again, please?

I’m sitting, smoking, in one of these crappy little London parks – the sort you get in the middle of a square – only this isn’t a nice posh one, like the one near Las’ father’s house, this is a horrible one, more dogshit and litter than anything else – when I think all this.

I know what I need to do.

I just – don’t want to, much.

Always hated apologising.

Shit.

Another romantic cliché occurs to me – I’ve got to this point – shouldn’t I look up now and see him coming towards me, same thought in mind?

Not bloody likely.

Catch little princeling coming to apologise – that’s my role.

Oh well.

Sooner done, sooner I can fuck him again.

Back to the flat I go.

Don’t try and rehearse what to say. One thing about Las, he always takes me by surprise, right from the first – upping the stakes to a blow job – to now, fucking me all night and then not speaking in the morning.

Try not to look at the concierge. Poncy fucking idea, someone paid to just sit there and – what? – monitor everyone’s coming and going?

Go up in the lift.

Unlock the door.

Flat’s quiet.

Fuck, he’s out. Now I’ll have to sit here and wait.

Then I see him, sat at the table.

Burnt bacon on the grill, rolls half-buttered, coffee cold and rancid.

He’s just sitting, head in hands, all that lovely hair dull from not washing, and matted from where his hands have been fiddling with it – he does that when he’s worrying.

He looks up at me, and then down again, and – fuck me – has he been crying – I don’t know, it’s hard to tell with elves.

Shit.

Oh Las.

He bites his lip, and then, 

“I suppose you’ve come to get your things.”

All cold and icy.

Immediately I’m on the defensive, about to growl or swear, when suddenly I catch myself.

“No,” I say, and then, quietly, gently, “I came back. To you. Because I love you – and you love me – you stupid proud fucker.”

He flicks his eyes away, and shrugs.

“I’m sorry,” I say, deep breath, Gimli, you can do this, “I’m sorry. We need – fuck am I really saying this? – we need to talk. I believe you didn’t sleep with Glorfindel – but it still hurt how you were with him. We need – I don’t bloody know – I’ve not lived with anyone before – fuck, you’re the one who’s had boyfriends, you know how it works?”

He’s biting his lip again, and I don’t know what else to say.

“Shit, Las,” oh, very eloquent, “we can make this ok, can’t we?”

And then he is standing, and – and oh Las – bloody whirlwind elf – arms round me, holding me tight, and I can’t quite make out all the words, but he’s kissing me, and I’m just kissing back, and – and this is going to end up in bed again, and suddenly I realise,

“No,” and he pulls back as though I’ve hit him, “no, Las, not just – fucking. More – we need – we need to talk first. Otherwise it’ll just happen again. Don’t you see?”

He nods, and then I start hearing some of the words he’s been saying, as he stands there, all quiet and not like himself.

_You came back, you want it to be ok, you love me, and I – I love you, but I don’t know – I don’t know how – how to make it right – don’t know how to say sorry. Never lived with anyone, never cared, not like this, don’t want it to stop, please._

“Fucks sake,” just holding on now, “fucks sake, Las. How difficult can it bloody be? I want to be here – you want me here. What – what are we even fighting about? I can’t remember. Not really.”

He shrugs,

“Glorf –“ he starts, and I put my hand over his mouth,

“No, not just that bastard. Not so simple,” I say, and then, thinking as I go, “it was you and me – you not coming home when you said you would – me being late, being grumpy, not dancing – you not not-dancing with me – you spending money like it’s going out of fashion – me not seeing that it’s your money, up to you – not talking – both of us – not talking about any of it, just letting it build up and up, and shouting and then fucking without resolving – and on and on.”

Shit.

I sound like I know about this stuff.

Not bad, for someone on their first relationship.

Las gestures at the kitchen,

“I thought – thought we were alright – after last night – I was making you breakfast – then you walked out. Is that – did you think that – was ok? Acceptable?”

He sounds cold again.

I look at him, and suddenly I see it – this cold – it’s how he hides from the pain – how he doesn’t cry.

Shit.

All the times I’ve just heard – ice-cold elven disdain – he’s been trying to hide hurt, that I’ve hurt him.

And I wonder for a moment – how many other boyfriends has he had?

We’ve not talked about it – I know he has, and its broken up – and I got the impression it wasn’t nice – but – maybe I should know a bit more.

For now though,

“No,” I say, slowly, thinking, “I suppose it wasn’t. But – I didn’t know you thought that. That we were ok. Thought – like before – you said it was a goodbye. Didn’t want to hear you say that again.”

We look at each other.

“It isn’t perfect,” he says, slowly, “I thought that before – it won’t be perfect. Not all the time, not like that day on the beach – but – maybe often enough. Or good enough. Not a dream, but – real.”

“Yes,” I shrug, “yes, like – you fight, but you make up – and on you go – and years pass – and – and that’s how you learn each other. We didn’t meet in battle, we have to take it slow.”

And suddenly that lovely flirty Las is back,

“Take me slowly,” he says, “I like that almost best of all.”

I must look doubtful, because he adds,

“We will talk more – later – but – Gim – I want to – to make love with our eyes open, with the light on, this time. Yes?”

And I can’t resist him.

Who could?


	31. Chapter 31

Where are we now?

Well.

I could tell you.

But then, as they say, I would have to kill you.

It doesn’t matter where we are.

Anywhere is perfect, so long as we are together, and there is excitement, and adrenalin, and he is being heroic and saving the world, or civilisation, or whatever it is he needs to feel he is saving this time.

What do I need?

I need him.

Alone, I am trapped by demands and duty, convention and expectation.

He frees me.

But now, finally, I realise, I understand – he needs me every bit as much.

Alone, he ricochets around like a loosed bullet.

I give him direction and purpose.

Together – together we are perfect, and deadly.

We are Glorfindel-and-Erestor.

Where are we?

Look behind the headlines.

We’ll always be there.

**Author's Note:**

> .
> 
>  
> 
> I should probably acknowledge that there are hints of both the US & UK QaF final episodes here, for those who wondered.
> 
>  
> 
> This looks like the end of the series. I don't know, but I suspect not.


End file.
